


Day Shift on Diagon

by prolix (shal)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attacks, Auror Corruption, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Ron Weasley, Barista Harry Potter, Blood, Case Fic, Coffee Shops, Deception, Diagon Alley, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Falling In Love, Forced Proximity, Getting Together, H/D Erised 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Illegal Potions Trafficking to Minors, Minor Injuries, Muggle Technology, Mystery, Oral Sex, POC Harry Potter, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Secret Identity, Sharing a Bed, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, art embedded in fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shal/pseuds/prolix
Summary: Auror Draco Malfoy has been relegated to patrol dutyagain. After a long shift, he stumbles upon a new coffee shop on Diagon Alley and finds himself being served coffee by none other than Harry Potter. Charmed, Draco can’t help but go back again and again in order to get a glimpse of what’s become of the wizarding world’s Golden Boy—and to get his weekly fix of caffeine, of course. But, as time passes, Potter’s mind seems to be occupied with more than just coffee… and it’s up to Draco to figure out what’s going on.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 87
Kudos: 499
Collections: H/D Erised 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers, I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I do. This story is an amalgamation of many of the tropes we see in fic nowadays, and I'm so glad I had the chance to write it. To my alpha and beta readers S, K, and T, thank you for taking the time to read through various iterations of this fic. This story would not be nearly as good as it's turned out to be without your helpful comments, cheerleading, and last minute read-throughs. Finally, thank you to the fest mods for all of their hard work in coordinating another year of Erised!

Draco would _kill_ for a cup of coffee (and, for a man who saw enough murder in his youth to last a lifetime, that's saying something).

It's all he can think about, though, as he steps through the Floo without his usual travel cup in hand. He’s running late, having overslept after pulling an all-nighter. He'd been awake reading over a new set of case files, trying to commit every name, every picture, every detail to memory because Head Auror Robards would be handing out case assignments today, and he’d rather die than be caught unprepared for a case. He can't bring himself to regret his lack of sleep, but he has to admit that he’s exhausted and really wants a cup of coffee. 

He also really, _really_ wants a good case assignment because he’s not sure what he’ll do if he is scheduled to patrol Diagon again. He's been on the force for nearly two years. But, despite receiving top marks during Auror training, he’s never been elected to do anything more than act as the wizarding world’s glorified security guard. It turns out that towering over kids shopping for Hogwarts and stopping petty thieves from breaking into Gringotts gets old fast, and Draco can't help but want more.

He often thinks that getting a decent assignment would be easier if he had a partner, but he’s never been paired up with one. Robards claims it is because he graduated from an odd-numbered cohort, but Draco knows it is because no one wants to work with the ex-Death Eater. Even now, seven years after the war, he can't really blame them. 

So, he’s on his own. This doesn't bother Draco nearly as much as it did when he first graduated from Auror training, but it does annoy him that he's had to put in at least twice as much work as anyone else to even be considered for a high-profile case. He'd even had to agree to a date with Mary, whose shrill voice is absolutely insufferable, to even get his hands on the case files. If it gets him the case, though, it will have been worth it.

He makes his way into the briefing room. It’s half-full of other Aurors who are laughing with each other, clutching at the _Daily Prophet_ and steaming paper cups of the tepid shite the Ministry calls coffee. He’s desperate enough to want a cup, but there isn't enough time to swing by the break room and get back in time for the meeting, and he really can't afford to be late—not today. 

The other Aurors ignore him. It doesn't matter, though. Not when Draco has more important things to focus on. He busies himself with the case files, despite knowing that he could probably recite their contents after an Obliviate with how many hours he’s spent poring over them. It's a potions case, and everyone in the department knows that Draco’s ace at potions. They haven't had to deal with one since he was still in Auror training, so Robards has to give this one to him, he’s the only one who makes sense for the job.

Robards is late, the bastard. Even Weasley makes it in earlier than him, which is a shock because everyone in the department knows Weasley never makes it in before breakfast. He’s the only one besides Robards who really acknowledges Draco, so he’s not surprised when Weasley gives him a nod in greeting—no more or less than what he’d give any other colleague—as he makes his way across the room. It's more than Draco deserves, especially with how he’d treated the man in school, apology or not.

Robards finally saunters into the room with the easy confidence of a man with nothing to lose, and Draco, whose future is caught in the other man’s throat, feels himself thrumming with anticipation at the sight of him. The room is still, silent, and all eyes are trained on him as he makes his way to the front of the room, and Draco thinks someone must've charmed his heart into his ears with how loud it's beating. 

Robards points his wand to his throat, casts a _Sonorous_ , and starts barking out orders, voice booming across the cramped meeting room like an explosion. Aurors begin to spring into action, leaping out of their seats and scrambling to follow his instructions in a desperate frenzy of activity. The room is in complete chaos around Draco, and it's hard to focus on Robards amidst all the movement, and he isn't quite sure if the sudden buzzing in his ears is from his exhaustion or the adrenaline or the fact that he hasn't had a single cup of coffee since yesterday morning or if it's because Robards just shouted,

“Aurors Weasley, Mosbey—the potions case is yours.”

Weasley gives him a look that verges on apologetic, and Draco feels as though the world is ending.

* * *

Robards assigns him to patrol Diagon.

He begs him to reconsider, offers to work overtime and holidays and even tries to give him the deed to Malfoy Manor, which now lays abandoned but is worth a pretty penny now that it isn't being occupied by an evil megalomaniac. All Draco wants is to act as consultant, if anything, but Robards recites a line from the Auror Code of Conduct that Draco has memorised: _A maximum of two Aurors will be assigned to all open cases unless special clearance is given._

As he prepares to Apparate to Diagon for his shift, Robards’s words echo in his mind. He thinks about what it would be like to have a partner himself, like Weasley or any of the other Aurors. To have someone to walk around Diagon with, to fill out paperwork with, to solve a case with. Sometimes, when he's sure he's out of range of anyone's Legilimency, he wonders what it would have been like if Potter had joined the Aurors with Weasley and himself, the way everyone thought he would after the war. Would he have been Weasley’s partner? Could he have been Draco’s? 

He’s still thinking about it when he lands in Diagon, wondering what it would be like to have Potter walking beside him in a matching maroon robe. He imagines them leaning against the walls of the Leaky Cauldron together, daydreams about Potter with his lips to his ear, whispering in-jokes, laughing softly at the biting comments Draco can't help but throw his way. He can almost feel Potter’s shoulder against his own, making him feel like it's just the two of them against the crowds of Diagon, against the world.

Draco takes up his post, an empty space next to him because, in reality, it would take an alternate universe for Potter to be his partner. In this one, the man seems to have dropped off the face of the earth completely. Draco hasn’t seen him since his trial after the war. Not even the _Daily Prophet_ knows where he went, though rumours about him still circulate constantly. Some think he’s slipped away into dreary Grimmauld Place, wasting away in the shadows of his grief. Others suspect that he's joined Charlie Weasley in Romania, to tame dragons and get over one Weasley with another. Draco can't help but think that he’s closer than they all think, that he’s been hiding right under their noses all along.

Diagon Alley is excruciating. He’s grateful he gets to work the day shift—Merlin knows how much worse the night shift would be. That said, his lack of sleep seems to have caught up with him, making him feel unbearably lethargic. Time under the unyielding August sun feels drenched in honey, and the hours stick onto his body, heavy weights that have him nearly hunched over at his post. He’s dozing. Each blink feels longer than the last, and his neck aches from his chin slipping down, over and over again, towards his chest. It’s hard to focus on the bustling crowd around him; it's all the same this time of year, anyways. A blur of parents, children, and even a few professors preparing for the upcoming school year. 

The work is a bit humiliating, too, but he's gotten quite good at ignoring the hot flush of shame that runs through him every time someone glares at him or sends a minor hex his way. He’s not welcome here, that much is clear, but it's not like he has any right to be. No amount of Auror work would allow him to make up for that, not that the Auror Department seems interested in letting him try.

It's almost evening when his shift ends, and a couple of young, newly-graduated Aurors take his place. They never send anyone his age to replace him, and he's smart enough to know that's an insult in itself. He’s so tired, though, so close to sleep that their loud voices seem to wake him, that he doesn't bother dwelling on it. All he wants to do now is go back to his flat, curl up in bed and sleep.

It begins to rain as he makes his way to one of the Ministry-sanctioned Apparition points. _Fantastic_ , he thinks, _the perfect ending to a shitty day_. The rain has him nearly drenched in seconds, wet hair curling around his ears and droplets of water running down his face in long rivulets. His robes become thick and heavy around his shoulders, its red deepening into an even darker maroon. He begins to walk a little faster, his shoes sounding too loud on the alley’s uneven cobblestones. He doesn't want to cast an Impervius because even with the Auror robes, people tend to get nervous whenever he pulls out his wand.

He almost doesn't see it, the tall, looming storefront which has now occupied the abandoned building that used to sit across from the Apparition point. It's hidden around a corner and would have been invisible to him from his post near the Leaky. No, not a storefront… a café? Its sign reads _Accio Latte_. The building looks unrecognizable, uncharacteristically bright with a fresh coat of paint and new light fixtures that spill warm light onto the street before him. The sounds of conversation and music drift out from its open windows, barely discernible over the rain that pounds down around him.

Despite the weather, he hesitates in front of the entrance, unsure if he should just go home as he’d planned. But he can't help but think of the cup of coffee he’d so desperately craved this morning, shivering under the dark, thunderous clouds which have overwhelmed Diagon Alley. He can imagine it, the strong scent of coffee in the air, his fingers wrapped around a hot mug, a rich, bittersweet brew sliding over his tongue.

His desire to go in intensifies when the front door opens, suddenly, and the café’s bright lights burst into the dark plaza like a Patronus chasing after a Dementor. A couple steps out, their laughs mingling with the jingle of the door bell as they make their way out into the rain, dashing through the rain towards the Apparition point behind Draco. The pure, unadulterated happiness on their faces finally draws Draco through the door. 

The door jingles loudly as he steps in, but no one pays him any mind, too invested in their own lives to bother. He’s grateful, happy to have this tiny pocket of anonymity within a world that despises him. He hopes it lasts.

It's rather cozy indoors. The walls are painted a pale blue and lined with photos that make the room feel old, in a comfortable, lived-in sort of way. The lights are dimmed, and most of the room is illuminated by candles and string lights that cast the room in a soft, warm glow. Something seems to slot into place within Draco as he takes in the room, his breath leaving him in a long exhale, the tension of the day flooding from his shoulders. He feels at ease here, as though he's lived here his whole life.

He makes his way up to the long counter in the back, sidestepping tables full of people, a waiter, and a stray cat who seems to have made his home here. There's a huge pastry case on display, practically brimming with scones and pre-made sandwiches that manage to look delicious, despite not being fresh. A closer look gives him a glimpse of a few Cauldron Cakes and Pumpkin Pasties tucked to the side and, for a moment, he's hit by a wave of nostalgia. The memory of trying a chocolate Cauldron Cake—which his parents had called ‘artificial, sugary rubbish’—on the Hogwarts Express for the first time is painfully clear in his mind at the sight of them. Again, he's struck by the feeling that he’s meant to be here, somehow.

“What can I get for you Auror— _Malfoy?_ ”

Draco’s gaze snaps to the man behind the counter—it's… it's _Potter._

“What the fuck.”

Potter seems to be at a loss for words too, mouth gaping open for a few moments before he bursts into a startled laugh, “It's nice to see you too, Malfoy.”

And then, Draco’s brain short circuits, because there's no other plausible explanation for the way his heart stutters in his chest, the way his eyes zero in on Potter’s smiling face. He’s overcome, suddenly, with the realisation that Potter is bloody attractive. Striking green eyes set off by dark skin, and a body that's filled out quite nicely—all broad chest and sinewy arms, a jaw so chiselled that Draco’s worried it could cut a man in two. Merlin knows the sight of it has already sliced his brain into pieces. 

“Malfoy?”

“Sorry?” replies Draco, shaking his head to snap himself out of it. A small smile still lingers on Potter’s face, tugging his features into something soft rather than mind-meltingly attractive. Heat rushes to his cheeks at the thought of being caught distracted.

“I asked if you wanted anything to drink?”

“But—why are you _here_? How did you manage to start working here without ending up all over the _Prophet_?”

Potter’s eyes sharpen a bit at his questions, piercing into him as if they're searching for something, some sort of sign. He replies after a few moments, apparently satisfied with whatever he sees, “Look, Malfoy, it's a long story. I’ll tell you later, alright? Order something, stay for a bit, and I’ll meet you after my shift.”

A small part of Draco wants to argue, to push back, but the more tactful side of him compels him to stay and listen. Besides, there seems to be a long queue forming behind him, and he really can't afford to give the general public another reason to hate him. He glances at the huge menu board behind the counter. A long list of drinks line its surface, each coupled with an animated drawing which must’ve taken hours to charm. The café serves everything from earl grey to more complicated concoctions he can hardly begin to pronounce. He orders a mocha on a whim. 

He pays quickly and heads to the front of the café, to an empty booth he’d seen by one of the front windows. He feels Potter’s gaze on his back as he makes his way over, and he's suddenly conscious about how he must look. Auror robes drenched, hem dripping rainwater on the floor, and hair a mess. His boots could use a good Polishing Charm, too. Fuck.

By the time he settles into the booth, Potter’s no longer at the counter. Draco wonders if he’s in the back somewhere, making his drink. He can't help but think about how strange this all seems. What were the odds that he’d stumble upon a new café in Diagon and that the barista would be Potter, of all people? It all feels like a weird dream. Is it a dream? Draco pinches himself.

He’s still rubbing his arm when a waiter drops his mocha off at his table, hot and steaming from its tall mug. He wraps his fingers around the smooth ceramic of the mug, taking comfort in the warmth that emanates from its surface. He’s quite cold, nearly shivering, still swaddled in wet robes. He’d usually cast a Warming Charm, but there's something particularly tantalising about the idea of letting your drink warm you up from the inside, so he doesn't bother. Instead, he brings the mug up towards his lips and takes a sip.

It's delicious. Bitter coffee runs smooth down his throat, tempered by cream and sweet chocolate. It's rich, all-encompassing in its flavour, but Draco can't stop himself from taking another sip, and then another, and another. He feels more awake than he has in years.

He’s always been rather picky about his coffee. He never liked coffee growing up. It had always been too bitter for his sweet tooth, too watery to fill him up, but it had become a habit during the long hours of Auror training he had to endure, something he had grown into after he had found a tolerable blend of grounds from a market in Hogsmeade. Later, once he had worked up the ability to stomach the Ministry’s piss poor brew, it turned into a peace offering during training to soften the blow of having to work with a former Death Eater. Now, it’s something he relies on to talk to the other Aurors during breaks. It had been nothing more than a necessity, a means by which he could keep his exhaustion at bay and fit in with the others. 

But, this… this is an indulgence. It's difficult to believe that he feels so strongly about a simple cup of coffee. He surreptitiously casts a few Auror-grade charms on it, checking for love or lust potions, Calming Draught or Cheering Charms, but they come up clean, and he gives in. He decides to take his time with it, to sink into the corner of his booth, hands clinging to the mug and savour the taste of coffee on his tongue. He’s sure that the next time someone brews Amortentia, he’ll be smelling this.

He’s draining the last few drops from his mug when Potter appears at the edge of his booth, an apron tossed haphazardly over his forearm. He looks down at Draco, who’s now cradling his empty mug as if he owns it, and asks, “I take it you like it?”

Potter looks infuriatingly smug. Draco wants to lie. He can't. “I loved it.”

“Oh,” replies Potter, looking a bit bewildered by Draco's honesty. He drops into the seat across from Draco and rests his forearms on the table. Draco’s surprised by how strong they look, all veins and sinewy cords of muscles. It reminds him that he still has no idea where Potter's been all these years, much less how he got so fit.

“Did you make it?” asks Draco, with a pointed glance towards his empty mug. 

“I did.”

“I must say, I never expected to find you working as a barista.”

“Why?” asks Potter, back straightening, voice teetering on a snarl, “Being a barista is too lowly a job for the Saviour, is it? Too close to poverty for a Malfoy to associate with?”

It's bait. It's a test. He clamps down on the part of him that's constantly itching for a fight. That's always looking to win. All he says is, “I said I liked the coffee,” and it's as if a switch flips. He’s passed. The tension floods out of Potter, his shoulders sloping downwards, posture relaxing.

“I’m sorry.”

“It's fine,” replies Draco, in the voice he uses to soothe victims at work, “but tell me how you got here. I didn't even know this place existed.”

“Well, it didn't. Not until a few weeks ago, really. I’ve spent the last few years travelling around a bit and wanted to settle down. England’s always been home, y’know?”

It's vague, but it's enough. He couldn't have expected Potter to tell him his entire life story, anyways. “And, the cafè?”

“What about it? It was ‘Mione's idea, and I told her I’d try it out. I mean, the recipes were easy enough to follow. It used to be owned by an old witch down Knockturn, but the business was clearly struggling. So, I bought it off her, changed locations, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” repeats Draco, still processing. It seems awfully convenient, a struggling coffee shop popping up as soon as Potter arrived back in town. But he knows what Knockturn is like these days. Half of the businesses which had thrived there before the war had shut down before Draco had even graduated Auror training. “I thought you’d be more inclined to enter Auror training or something.”

Potter barks out a laugh, his smile a bit strained at the edges, “Like everyone else, yeah? After the war, all I wanted was to settle into something easy. Making coffee is mindless work.”

He sounds almost wistful, then, and it strikes Draco as odd, considering that the man is currently living his dream, isn't he? Doing something easy. He almost comments on it but is distracted when Potter gestures at his mug and says, “Would you like another?”

He says yes without really thinking about it, and in the span of a blink Potter is gone, off to brew another cup. He glances around the shop only to find it completely empty, lights dimmed except for the string lights hanging up around him, the shop devoid of all noise except the low hum of the coffee machines from the back. He’s been so engrossed in Potter that he hadn't noticed the whole shop closing around them. The thought embarrasses him.

Potter seems to be taking his time with the coffee, so Draco pulls out his Muggle laptop, which he had shrunk and stuffed into the pocket of his robes before his shift. Using it for work is something he picked up from Pansy Parkinson, his closest friend from school, who uses the device to edit articles for _Witch Weekly_. Draco had resisted using it at first, finding it hard to believe that so much information could be stored on such a small device without magic, but he has grown to love it. Draco is now highly proficient at Microsoft Excel and spends most of his time on the computer making spreadsheets to organise his life. He starts to fill out the one he uses to log his hours at the Ministry.

Potter's back, two mugs in hand now. He passes one to him, and settles back into the seat across from Draco, something expectant in his eyes. Draco takes a sip, nearly having to bite back a moan at the rich taste of coffee. There's something else in there, too, smokey and trailing fire down his throat as he swallows.

“Is there Firewhisky in this?” he asks, looking up from his screen.

Potter is gaping at him. No, actually, he seems to be gaping at the laptop. Draco glances down at it. It’s a newer model, sure, but nothing to gape about. “Hello? Earth to Potter? Firewhisky?”

“Are you using a Muggle laptop?”

Draco gives him an unimpressed stare, “Yes, I am. Do you have something to say about it? I honestly thought that you of all people would be better about this sort of thing. I mean, really, didn't you grow up with—”

“No, no, I don't have a problem. I guess I’m just… surprised, that’s all. I like it. It's modern.”

“I do like to consider myself a champion of modernity,” says Draco, to draw attention away from the blush he can feel blooming on his face. Potter laughs. Neither of them mention Draco's ideological views from before the war.

“Firewhisky?” he repeats, holding up his mug.

“I thought you’d like it,” replies Potter with a wide smile. He taps his own mug against Draco’s, “Cheers.”

They slip back into conversation easily, catching up on lost time as if they'd spent their time apart as friends rather than enemies. They navigate around their shared past and instead, share bits and pieces of their lives now. The last couple of days, weeks, months. Nothing too serious, but enough to keep the stories flowing between them. Draco’s laptop lies abandoned on the table, pushed aside and forgotten.

Harry—because at some point in between learning about his prized collection of Snitches and how much he loves his godson, Potter becomes Harry, in Draco's head—is charming. Draco finds himself wrapped up in his stories and breathless with laughter at the way Harry emphasises his points with wild gesticulations. He’s kind, too; it's clear in the way he speaks about others, the way he pokes fun at himself just as much as he does his friends. 

He pulls a few chuckles from Harry himself, peppering Harry’s stories with sharp, sarcastic comments that have the other man smiling into his drink, angling his body towards Draco’s. It pleases him more than he’d care to admit.

There’s something magnetic in the air, something that pulls Draco closer and closer to Harry with each passing second. Draco’s taken by the sight of Harry like this, chatty and warm under the glow of the lights strung up around them. His eyes catch on the shadows playing in the hollow of Harry’s throat, the tantalising way light glances off his cheekbones, the glint of his teeth when he smiles. 

He has to go, eventually, because it's getting late. Because he has an early morning tomorrow. He’s definitely not leaving because he’s so hopelessly besotted by Harry that he has the urge to have a good wank about it. 

He’s about to step out the front door when he turns and says, “Potter.” It doesn't sound like it had when they were in school, spat out in courtyards and corridors, full of adolescent angst. It’s softer now, affectionate, even. Easy out of his mouth, as though he’s been waiting for a moment like this for years.

“Yeah?”

“Why didn't I hear about this in the _Prophet_?” He gestures at the shop around them, which surely would’ve made headlines.

“Ah,” starts Harry, running his hand through his hair, looking rather sheepish. His eyes seem to pierce into Draco’s, though, when he says, “No one really knows I work here.”

“What do you mean?”

“There's a charm on the door. I had an old friend set it up. Only the people who I’ve met before are able to really see me here. Everyone else just sort of sees past me. Kind of like a Notice-Me-Not Charm.”

“You have friends?”

“Very funny, Malfoy.”

A smile tugs at his lips and he says, “This is an Auror-grade charm, isn't it though? Not authorised for civilian use.”

Harry glances down at Draco’s Auror robes, and then back up at him, eyes sparkling, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

He looks so earnest, and the child in Draco is practically shouting with joy. This was all he’d ever wanted when he was younger—to be on Harry Potter’s good side, to be in on all his secrets. And the adult in him knows what it feels like to be hunted by the public, by the press. He knows how much he values his privacy, how much Harry must value his own. It's an easy decision to make.

Draco shakes his head, no, and Harry gives him an utterly charming, boyish smile that makes his heart constrict in his chest. He steps out the door, a smile on his face, and hears the bell jingle as he makes his way towards the Apparition point. 

It sounds like a good omen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art you see in this chapter was created by the wonderful [creeeee](https://creeeee.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

It's painful to see Weasley and his partner fumbling around with the potions case when he drops by the Ministry the next morning. They’ve spent the last day hovering over case files, trying to figure out what kind of illegal potion is being trafficked to wizards at Hogwarts, some as young as first years.

“It _has_ to be a lust potion,” drawls Weasley’s partner, Auror Thomas Mosbey, a truly incompetent man who had barely made it out of training with passing marks, nevermind passing marks in Potions. They're in the break room, sipping the cheap instant coffee the Ministry buys. Draco can hardly force it down his throat anymore, not when he's had what Harry serves at his place, but he stomachs it so he doesn't look like too much of a toff in front of the other Aurors. They have enough reason to hate him already.

Mosbey’s practically smouldering at Weasley, greasy, dirty blond hair falling into his eyes as he says, with an absurd amount of confidence, “It has Ashwinder eggs in it, after all.”

Draco had memorised the potions report on assignment day and knew the potion wasn't a lust potion. In fact—

“Ashwinder eggs are a key ingredient in love potions too, though.” Weasley beats him to it. 

“Oh, right,” is all Mosbey says, and Draco wants to A-K himself on the spot. If _Weasley_ of all people had to correct his partner on potions knowledge, the case would never be solved.

Draco shrugs it off, though, unable to do more than to rein in his jealousy. He keeps his head down, Apparates to Diagon, and considers Obliviating the experience from his mind.

Diagon is still excruciating, but there's something exciting about knowing there's somewhere for him to go afterwards. He catches himself thinking about Harry during the dull moments of his shift, cranes his neck to see if he can catch a glimpse of him during the lunchtime rush under the guise of patrolling the area. He almost misses a kid running out of Flourish & Blotts with an armful of stolen books after getting distracted looking through the shop’s window, wondering if Harry’s read a book titled _Snitching on the Snitch: A Detailed History._

When evening comes, and Draco is released from his duties, he makes his way down Diagon’s cobblestones with a spring in his step. The café looms before him, its sign reading _Café Incendio_. Something tugs at his mind, as though he’s forgotten something important, but it slips away when Harry lets him know that he’s saved him a Cauldron Cake, fresh from the oven.

“Do you like patrolling Diagon?” asks Harry, later, when Draco’s still polishing off his Cauldron Cake.

“No, not really. I don't have much of a choice in the matter, though.”

“Why’s that?”

Draco gives Harry a look, “Don't give me that shite. I’m sure you’ve heard how awful Robards is from Weasley.”

“Er, no, I haven't, actually… he must not have mentioned it.”

“Really? Well, Robards doesn't like me. Never has. I think he’s jealous of my fabulous complexion. I only made it into training because of a good word from McGonagall after eighth year. That's why I’m always being assigned Diagon. It's Junior Auror work.”

“That's fucked,” scoffs Harry, “Why did you join the force, anyways? Surely it wasn't what you wanted to be before the war?”

He hesitates to answer, not quite sure if he's ready to share something so personal with Harry just yet. But Harry looks so sincere, as though he’d really listen to Draco if he decides to reply but respect him if he doesn't. It's so new to Draco, who grew up under the Malfoys’ stiff upper lip and the narrowed eyes of his peers in Slytherin, that the words fall out of his mouth before he can really think about it. “I wanted to redeem myself. 

“Or, at least, that's how it started. It also turned into a way to work off all the trauma and piss off my parents. Eventually, I grew to love it. The action. The strategy. I’ve always been a fan of a good mystery…” His words taper off as he remembers how little of what he learned in training has actually been put into practise. Rather than working his way up the ranks as he’d dreamt, he is stuck with paperwork and shifts no one wants. 

“And do you feel redeemed?” asks Harry, chin resting on his hands as he leans over the back counter. It's far past closing time, and the lack of light in the room has Harry looking more serious than he usually does when he's with Draco.

“Will I ever?”

Harry, always quick to smile, doesn't. He’s completely serious when he says, “You're making an effort, aren't you? That's enough,” and it's easy to believe him when he speaks with such conviction.

August starts flying by, each day seeming shorter than the last. He continues to visit Harry’s café, and Harry continues to provide him with his favourite confections. Draco’s a bit enamoured that Harry even remembers all of these little details about him—that he hates cranberry scones and prefers his coffee with milk, but not his tea. He knows Draco loves to sit by the window because living in Hogwarts’ basement for nearly seven years made him feel claustrophobic in dark spaces. He knows Draco hates the taste of pumpkin juice because Pansy Parkinson once hexed him to taste nothing but whenever he drank anything—even water—after a particularly nasty fight in fifth year. 

Draco doesn't know nearly as much about Harry as Harry knows about him. He seems fond of spinning stories about everyone else around him rather than himself. Draco could practically write a novel with how much he knows about Harry’s friends; he can recall Weasley’s favourite Quidditch team; that Granger is overly affectionate when she’s drunk; Longbottom’s tendency to oversleep; that Lovegood prefers to watch American romantic comedies to British ones, but only when she's up late editing _The Quibbler_. In spite of all that, he still has no idea what Harry’s favourite colour is, much less where he’s been for the past seven years.

It doesn't really concern Draco, though. Harry values his privacy, as anyone would after being hounded by the press for most of their life, and even if there seems to be some sort of connection blooming between them, Draco can't blame him for being a little guarded.

And, it doesn't hurt that he genuinely likes listening to Harry talk.

“Oh, that? It’s nothing,” says Draco when Harry thanks him for _really taking the time to listen._ He had been aiming for nonchalance when he had replied, trying to act as though he listened to others all the time. This is blatantly untrue. Draco has a reputation for being a bad listener. It is a terrible, impossible-to-kick habit that stems from his questionable youth. He just… tunes people out when they start talking about things that don't interest him—which is, admittedly, fairly often.

Harry, though, is the most interesting person he’s spoken to in years. Draco must be starved for friends. That's the only plausible explanation as to why every detail of Harry’s being makes him want to lose his mind. His voice is much deeper than it was at school, robust, honey-smooth, and dripping with a sort of confidence that makes Draco, Slytherin through-and-through, salivate. His stories are good, too, each one funnier than the last, leaving Draco on the edge of his seat, dying for the punchline. None of this has ever mattered to Draco before. He can hardly remember how Pansy sounds after a smoke or the last story Goyle had told him. But with Harry, it’s different, he’s hanging on to his every word. It’s always been different with him, hasn't it?

And, although Harry’s a little private, bits and pieces of him inevitably slip out when they're together. He sees the hard work Harry puts into the shop when he stays late to scrub the dishes clean by hand and when he spends nearly an hour trying to charm the text on the menu board the perfect shade of blue. He never collects Galleons from the tip jar for himself and painstakingly preps the kitchen for the following morning so the other baristas don't have to. He always keeps Draco’s mug full and never leaves before him. 

He’s unfailingly decent. And Draco sees, now, why the entire wizarding world is drawn to this man, why passersby are all vying to be pulled into his orbit. It’s intoxicating, being the center of Harry’s attention.

So, he continues to come back, again and again, and lavishes all of his attention on Harry in return.

He becomes a regular in Harry's life. Sometimes he helps him test recipes, which involves tasting whatever Harry comes up with. Pepper Imp hot chocolates are a hit, alongside Butterbeer lattes. He despises the Liquorice Wand milkshakes and Chocoball macchiatos. Harry says he trusts Draco to be honest and although he tries not to read into it too much, the comment pleases him. He soon finds himself looking forward to tasting a new drink, no matter how bad it is. Harry's laughter at his scathing reviews and smiles at his good ones are shots of serotonin to his brain.

Draco also spends a good deal of time sprucing up the café. He charms the lights to twinkle, the way they had during dinners at the Manor growing up, and teaches Harry how to spell drinks to appear at one’s table upon request. He Transfigures an old coffee machine into a record player and the next time he comes in, Harry has the Weird Sisters playing. They're small, showy bits of magic he had always taken for granted, but he loves doing them just to see the way Harry’s eyes light up whenever he learns something new. 

“I should be paying you for all the work you do around here. Thank you,” says Harry, standing shoulder to shoulder with Draco against the back counter. Draco has just given Harry a few magical plants to decorate the shop.

“Don't thank me,” replies Draco, pressing his shoulder into Harry’s, relishing in the comforting warmth there, “I do it because I care,” _about you_ , goes unsaid.

* * *

The cafe looks a right mess when he comes in one evening.

“Have you been robbed?” asks Draco, glancing around at the fallen chairs and singed curtains.

Harry, who’s balancing precariously on a ladder in front of the menu-board, now scrubbed clean, slants an eye roll his way. “Honestly Malfoy, I know my set-up isn't up to pure-blood standards but that's a bit much. It was just the crowd from the evening rush. Our regulars go absolutely ballistic for our coffee.”

“And did you save any for me?”

“Stay and help me clean things up and you’ll find out.”

Draco huffs out a laugh and gets to work. 

Afterwards, he finds Harry in the backroom, cleaning up a coffee machine. It’s very clearly Muggle, obscenely large and covered with all sorts of shiny buttons and knobs. 

“So, this is where the magic happens?”

Harry looks up, a blinding smile erupting on his face as soon as he catches sight of Draco. “You finished! And, yeah, it is. I’m just cleaning this up before I go.”

Draco doesn't take in too much of the room, too distracted by the sight of Harry before him, who has resumed cleaning. His arms flex as they scrub old coffee out of the machine, pulling his button-down shirt taut against his shoulders. He’s bent over the counter, too, and his arse looks absolutely delectable in the trim, dark wash jeans he is wearing. Draco finds himself transfixed with the way his veins shift under his skin. The way sweat lingers on his brow bone. The way he glances up at Draco every so often while he is talking, eyes bright, lips curled upwards. 

Being in the backroom with Harry, alone, has a thrill running up Draco’s spine. He feels sneaky, as though he’s being let in on a secret that no one else knows. 

“Would you like a cup?” Harry asks, drawing Draco from his thoughts.

“Will you teach me how to make one?” When Draco says this, voice light and teasing, he assumes Harry will just show him how it is done. Instead, the man steps back and gestures for Draco to approach the machine.

Draco does, feeling a bit off-kilter at the prospect of having to make his coffee the Muggle way. He has a magical coffee maker at home.

“I’ve already put some grounds into the machine. Press the button to add hot water—ah, no, not that one, the one on the right—and the filtered coffee will pour into your mug automatically. Next, we need to steam the milk,” Harry hands him a small, silver jug here, “just press that, yes, that's the one.”

The milk is slow to steam, spluttering as Draco attempts to follow Harry’s instructions. He isn't quite able to get the hand movements right, and Harry moves in behind him, one arm curling around him to grasp at his wrist and guide him through the motions.

The scorching heat of Harry behind him steals all of Draco’s attention. He can feel the man's solid chest under his back, the steady confidence of his hand on Draco’s wrist, his voice soft in his ear, spouting encouraging remarks in between directions. Every fibre of his being is on edge, desperate to press back into Harry, unsure if he should put some distance between them instead. 

They have never talked about what is growing between them. This addictive, electric thing that crackles whenever his grey eyes met green. This pressure that has been mounting between them for the past few weeks, aching for release when their shoulders brush, when Harry’s hand lingers on Draco’s for a few seconds too long, when Draco flirts with him, openly, shamelessly. When Harry’s like this, so close to him, so utterly endearing with his extensive knowledge of all things coffee and tea, Draco can almost imagine that the other man feels it too. 

Harry doesn't let go when the milk jug is full, steering Draco’s arm towards the freshly brewed shots of espresso and nudging him to pour it in. The steamed milk crashes into the dark liquid, filling the cup and turning it a few shades lighter. For a few agonising seconds, all of Harry’s focus is targeted at him. His gaze is heavy, full of intention.

Just as Draco is about to break, just as he’s ready to turn around and slam his lips into Harry’s, the man steps back. The sudden loss of warmth is excruciating. He has the irrational urge to turn back time, to curl back into Harry's embrace. Instead, he picks up the cup of coffee, takes a deep breath, and faces him.

“Cheers,” he says, toasting his cup in a mock salute towards Harry. He takes a sip and nearly moans. It’s heavenly.

“Good?” Harry asks, eyes sparkling, “I want a sip.”

Harry grabs the mug from him before he can respond and takes a miniscule sip, his lips right where Draco's had been. He can't help but imagine where else he would like Harry’s lips to be. As soon as Harry swallows, a smile breaks out on his face, and Draco feels proud of himself for causing it.

They don't kiss, but Draco goes home wishing they had.

* * *

“So, he’s a barista? Really?” asks Pansy over wine one evening, brown eyes narrowed. They're sprawled on the plush carpet that dominates Draco’s flat, charcuterie board and a now-empty bottle of Cabernet between them. Pansy’s as casual as he’s ever seen her, wearing an old Slytherin Quidditch jersey over some worn, cotton shorts, and her short hair is gathered messily at the base of her neck. “You're sure it's not another impersonator?”

Draco cringes at the memory. He’d come home one evening and practically dove into the Floo to tell Pansy that Harry Potter—yes, the one we went to school with, yes, really—had glanced at him when passing him by at Gringotts and that that could only mean Potter was up to something, Pans! 

After viewing the memory through a Pensieve, they’d discovered that the man Draco had seen had merely been a Harry Potter impersonator. The kind hired for kids’ parties, cried Pansy, nearly an hour afterwards, hysterical with laughter. Draco had never really lived it down since.

“That was _one_ time.”

“You're sure? I can summon the Pensieve—”

“Fuck off,” is Draco’s brilliant response, and Pansy promptly collapses into a loud, delighted cackle. Later, though, she asks, “So, is this serious, or…?”

Draco shrugs, trying for noncommittal, but Pansy's always been able to read him like a magazine, and goes, “You're obsessed with him again, aren't you?”

“A little.”

He tells her everything. Being assigned to patrol Diagon, again. Weasley and fucking Mosbey. Stumbling upon the café that first night—the new one, right across the Apparition point, called _Wands and Whisks_. The coffee, the Cauldron Cakes, the café’s decor. Spending more time alone with Harry than he’s ever spent with anyone in his life.

“Harry?” crows Pansy, delighted.

It's a bit of a shock to him too, the way Harry’s name slips off his tongue as though he's been saying it out loud for years as opposed to just a few days. It feels as comfortable as a _Lumos_ in Draco’s mouth. He thinks about how Harry had looked when Draco had used his first name for the first time, just a few days prior. It had been an accident, really, Draco's mind forgetting to switch between Harry and Potter, tired after a long shift. Harry had startled, eyes going a bit round and mouth—which had been open, telling Draco about an annoying customer—snapping shut.

“Harry?” he’d repeated, partly to urge him to continue his story and partly just to see how the other man would react.

He had looked gorgeous. Soft and pleased, cheeks flushed and lips into a smaller, more tentative smile than the broad grins he usually gave Draco. Draco had wanted to kiss him, then. To take him into his arms, to bury his fingers in Harry’s dark curls, to pull Harry closer, closer, closer until Drao’s lips were pressed against his.

“First names, huh? Trying to woo me now, Malfoy?”

“Perhaps.” Draco had felt bold in the emptied café. It had been late, later than he usually stayed back. The romance of it all, the idea that they were alone, together, had felt enticing. 

Harry had laughed it off, drawing Draco back into another story, allowing the tension between them to fizzle out. Draco had still felt it, though, simmering beneath his skin and threaded through the words they’d shared with one another. Evident in their newfound disregard for personal space, with each of Harry's inhales being one of Draco’s exhales and the way Harry's leg inched closer and closer to Draco’s under the table until it was pressed against his, light enough to be accidental, firm enough to be something more. Their fingers had brushed against each other—once, twice, three times—and Draco had felt the delicate skin of Harry's hands, stretched thin over his knuckles, for the first time without pain. He hadn't thought he had imagined the heat in Harry's eyes. He had been certain that that same, indulgent heat had been mirrored in his own. 

“Harry,” he confirms to Pansy, heart soaring into his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco has finally worked up the nerve to invite Harry back to his flat for dinner when the other man all but disappears.

The next few times he steps into the _Charmed Cappuccino_ , Harry is missing. Draco asks after him, which earns him a decidedly unimpressed eye-roll from the woman who now takes orders from behind the counter. He’s taken leave for a few days, it seems, but it feels much longer than that to Draco.

He’s not sure why he keeps coming back when Harry isn't there. The coffee is still good, of course, but it doesn't taste the same when unaccompanied by Harry’s loud laugh and soft smiles. It's become muscle memory, he supposes, to head here after work and order whatever new drink is on the menu and sit in his usual booth by the window.

Evenings at the café seem to stretch out before him, long and meandering. He takes the time to really look around, telling himself that his newfound interest is borne from the Auror Department’s emphasis on “constant vigilance” rather than his personal desire to learn more about Harry. 

The café feels a lot colder without Harry in it, so Draco chases after lukewarm memories wherever he can find them. He’s not really sure what he’s looking for—one of Harry's aprons, maybe, or any sign of his smile in one of the pictures on the wall. The record player or the lights Draco had charmed. Anything to remind Draco that the past few weeks between Harry and himself have been _real_ and not some caffeine-induced fever dream. 

Which is something that's getting harder and harder to convince himself of, especially since, just a few days prior, he’d found that he was the only one who knew Harry was working here.

He’d been in the Ministry cafeteria. The cafeteria is rather large, sitting adjacent to the Atrium and styled to look like a Muggle food court; it had been one of Minister Shacklebolt’s ploys to show how progressive the Ministry was post-war. 

He had found Weasley standing in line at the Pret a Manger, which was sandwiched between a Nandos and a Gourmet Burger Kitchen. He had seemed to be lingering in front of the display case, which was proudly displaying Chocolate Frog tarts and Cockroach Cluster croissants next to their miniature Victoria sandwiches and pan au chocolats. 

“Alright, Weasley?” Draco had asked, sidling up beside the man. 

He hadn’t looked too surprised at Draco's sudden appearance. They had been perfectly civil to each other since the war and had developed a sense of mutual respect for one another during training. He had looked down at Draco, having to crane his neck a bit to do so because of how unbelievably tall he was, “Yeah, ‘m fine. You? How's Diagon?”

Draco had slanted a look at the other man, hoping it conveyed just how much he loathed Diagon. It must have, because Weasley laughed, loud and booming. “Yeah, thought so. Robards has been a right bastard lately. You should've been on the potions case instead of me.”

“How is that going, by the way?” 

“Ah, so that's why you're here. You're like a bloody cat, Malfoy. Only coming to me when you need something.”

Draco had shrugged, “Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin. Now, tell me.”

They had cast a Muffliato around themselves, and Weasley told him. The case had been going worse than Draco had thought. They had shifted away from figuring out what the potion was to where it came from. Weasley had a few suspects in mind; they just needed to track them down and catch them in the act. But, every time they got a tip to check out a warehouse belonging to the source, they were either storming into a space that had been cleared out completely, or worse, ambushed.

“Fuck,” Draco had muttered, “there's a mole.”

“I know. But I’ve no idea who it could be. The only people who have access to the case are me, Mosbey, and Robards.”

“Do you think it's Mosbey?”

“No, I—” Weasley had looked a bit hesitant, “I trust him with my life.”

Draco had nodded, and then, with a sharp inhale, “Robards?”

The other man's blue eyes had darkened a bit at that. Draco had known how he felt. If it was Robards, the entire department would be in shambles. “I hope not.”

“ _Sir!_ Are you going to order?” It was the witch at Pret a Manger, looking particularly aggrieved, as though this wasn't the first time she had tried to get Weasley’s attention. It had broken the tension between them, and Draco had cancelled the Muffliato. The world had rushed around them, none the wiser about their conversation.

Weasley had stepped up to the counter and ordered a coffee with all his sheepish, Gryffindorian charm. By the time Draco had ordered his own, the witch was practically cooing over him as well. They had walked back to the Auror Department together.

Weasley had looked a bit odd, though, as he nursed his coffee. Draco hadn’t quite been able to put his finger on why. Nothing had changed between then and a few minutes earlier.

It hit him while they had been walking down the corridor leading to the Auror Department entrance. Weasley had been drinking coffee. Harry had spent nearly ten minutes a few weeks prior telling him about how the man despised the stuff. Draco had paused in the middle of the corridor they were in and gestured to Weasley's cup, “Wait, don't you _hate_ coffee?”

“No? I have a cup every morning. Who told you that?” 

“I, uh,” he had scrambled for an answer, not expecting Harry's story to have been untrue, “heard it in the _Prophet_ , I think, a few years back.” 

“Oh, then it’s definitely rubbish,” Weasley had said with an eye-roll, “I used to hate it before eighth year, though.”

Before training… didn't Harry disappear around then? Weasley and himself had been recruited straight out of eighth year. Draco couldn't remember if he had ever seen Harry again after that. Had Weasley not seen Harry since then either? Did he not know that he ran the shop on Diagon?

He had asked Weasley if he'd heard of it. The new café across from the Apparition point at Diagon.

“ _Felix Delicious_ , you said it was? Sorry, mate. Never heard of it.”

* * *

A week later, Robards assigns him to the evening shift on Diagon, and Draco suddenly doesn't know what to do with himself. It feels wrong, having his routine disrupted like this. He has never been particularly attached to it in the past but, for some reason, he finds himself longing for the crisp breeze of Diagon Alley in the mornings and the bustling crowds. And, if also he yearns for a particularly sinful cup of coffee, well, no one has to know about that do they?

His shift starts at six, so he decides to head down to Diagon early. He wanders around the shops for a bit, but he can't fool himself for longer than half an hour. He ends up at _Felix Delicious_ at half past five, telling himself it will just be a quick coffee before work, nothing more. 

His heart, thumping in his chest as though he’d just flown a marathon, desires anything but.

Harry is back, he knows that much. He’s been back for a few days now. Draco had caught a glimpse of him through the window the other day but hadn't gone in. He hasn't been back to the café since he had found out, something urging Draco to hold back, to play it cool. This thing, whatever it is growing between them, is delicate, and Draco will not ruin it by coming on too strong. Merlin knows he’s fucked things up between them like that before.

He’s still hovering outside the doors, trying to decide whether he should stay or go, when a sudden jet of red light shoots out from somewhere behind him and shatters the café window.

Draco’s Auror instincts kick in immediately. Adrenaline surges through his veins in a way it hasn't since his training days. The spike of energy feels like second nature to Draco, like it belongs to him in a way desk duty and scutwork never had. He sprints into the building, wand sliding out of its holster and into his grasp in a single, fluid motion. Customers are pushing past him, fleeing the shop as fast as they possibly can. Three to four stragglers stay behind, but what Draco initially believes are a few particularly brave customers actually seem to be more perpetrators, casting wild, explosive curses behind the counter as though their lives depend on it.

In the middle of it all is Harry. The man is deflecting curses left and right, his apron—a torn mess of fabric— hanging off his body and a cut bleeding down the side of his face. Part of his hair seems to have been singed off, leaving his long, dark strands uneven. In this moment, Draco is struck by the fact that Harry looks too fucking attractive like this. 

A nasty hex strikes Harry in the shoulder, suddenly, drawing a pained yelp from the man. Draco springs to action, then, wand working to disarm and restrain the men around him. He loses track of Harry for a few moments, too focused on ducking under stray curses to pay much attention to the other man. At some point, though, he ends up behind the counter. He’s back-to-back with Harry, dodging the splinters of wood and shards of glass that seem to rebound towards them after being hit by powerful jets of magic and working, tirelessly, to keep the perpetrators at bay.

He’s seconds away from gaining the upper hand when they stop, suddenly. The absence of movement and sound and magic, a stark contrast to the scene around them a few moments prior, gives Draco pause. His slight hesitation is enough, though, and the attackers—two wizards and two witches—all that Draco can discern amidst the haze of smoke and curse light—Apparate away.

“Fuck,” gasps out Draco, out of breath from both the fight and the sudden, crushing disappointment that _they_ _got away_ under his watch. He spins around, apology already on his tongue, “Harry, I—”

Harry, covered in blood and swaying on his feet, barely has the time to meet Draco's eyes before collapsing into his arms. Harry’s wand falls to the floor with a loud clatter, but Draco, caught off guard with Harry’s collapse, doesn't pay much attention to it. He’s nearly buckling under the other man’s weight, hands scrabbling to hold onto him, fingers catching on scraps of torn fabric and skin that is far too slippery for Draco’s comfort.

“Harry?” he says, voice at a higher pitch than he cares to admit, but it doesn't matter. The other man is completely unconscious. He casts a few superficial healing charms, enough to keep the man from bleeding out before Draco is able to assess him thoroughly. Draco looks around at the decimated coffee shop around them. It's hard to see the full extent of damage, with the evening sky darkening around them, but shadows gather in every corner, highlighting the wrecked chairs and tables. The pastry case had shattered at some point during the fight, and the Cauldron Cakes Draco favoured now shine with a thin layer of glass. The booth by the window that he and Harry had sat in is black and smoking, smouldering with the remnants of a _Confringo._ Something akin to grief bubbles up in Draco at the sight of it.

Harry is still dead weight in his arms. He needs back-up, but it's clear that someone has targeted Harry here. Draco won't be surprised if the perpetrators decide to return to finish what they started. He wishes Harry were awake so he could ask him what the fuck was going on, but he pushes the impulse to cast an Enneverate aside. The most important thing to him right now is keeping Harry and himself safe. He decides to drag Harry into the backroom so that, if anything, the other man will be hidden away from further harm while Draco sends a Patronus to the Auror Department. 

He pushes through the heavy wooden door of the backroom, glass crunching under his feet as he pulls Harry in. He lays him on the floor, trying to be as gentle as possible, but Harry's head still hits the hardwood with a loud _thunk._ It’s incredibly small, more of a pantry than anything. It's also quite dim, the whole room illuminated by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The smell of coffee is overwhelming here, strong enough to mask the sulphuric post-curse residue from outside. Draco’s just about to turn to head out of the room, his wand already in his hand to call for the other Aurors, when he hears the door shut behind with a deafening _click_.

He spins around. It’s locked. Fuck.

Draco points his wand at the door. _Alohamora, Confringo_ , and every other unlocking spell in the Auror Trainee Handbook do nothing. Slamming against the door with his shoulder does nothing. He manages to summon up enough memories—Pansy’s laugh, Paris as a child, green eyes—to try an _Expecto Patronum_. Nothing. Not a single spark of magic. There must be wards on the door. They're trapped.

Trapped. With a wand that doesn't work. With Harry, unconscious, still, and bloody on the floor before him. He feels dizzy, suddenly. Headlines flash before his eyes ( _Death Eater Kills Saviour! Childhood Rivalry Turns Sour! Malfoy Tortures Potter!_ ). There's nothing to describe the panic he feels. The frantic desperation that makes him feel like he’s back in the middle of the war, back on top of the Astronomy Tower in sixth year, back at the Manor, cowering before his father. He wishes Harry was _awake._

His eyes scan the room, searching for anything he can use to escape or wake Harry up. The walls are covered in shelves, each filled with stacks upon stacks of supplies for the shop. One wall holds bowls, mugs, and utensils. Another is crammed full of jars of coffee beans and loose-leaf tea. Old coffee machines, including the one Harry had been cleaning the last time they were here, rest in one corner, pressed up against a humming Muggle fridge and a stack of extra chairs. And… there! A full jug of water lays idle on top of a small cabinet at the back wall.

Before he can really think through what he’s about to do, Draco grabs it and pours the entire jug of water over Harry’s head. 

Harry jolts awake, spluttering and blinking water out of his eyes. Long streams of it roll down his face, drenching his hair, his clothes. Draco would laugh, had they been in any other situation.

Harry jerks upwards into a sitting position, face contorting in pain as the movement pulls at his freshly healed skin. Draco sinks to his knees at the sight, raising his hands to cup Harry’s face, “Are you alright? Are you in pain?”

Harry looks disoriented for a moment, as if his eyes can't quite focus. He’s oblivious, for a few blissful seconds, before awareness dawns and his green eyes fixate on Draco in an alarming state of clarity. “ _What did you do_?”

He’s taken aback for a moment, “What did I do?”

Harry’s up in an instant, towering over Draco and looking every bit the Saviour of the wizarding world, broad shoulders pushed back, spine ramrod straight. He starts patting himself down, fingers frantic. “Where's my wand?”

“I—” Draco can't think for a moment, thoughts whizzing through his mind at a frenetic pace. Harry's wand. Where is Harry’s wand? When he remembers, his stomach feels like lead. Harry’s at the door, now, and it looks like he's realised that they're locked in because he’s glaring down at Draco like he’s the scum of the earth. He realises, with sickening clarity, that Harry’s gaze has never looked so clear. 

“It's outside. You dropped it when you collapsed.”

“And you didn't think to pick it up? You just decided to leave my wand—one of the most coveted wands in the bloody wizarding world—out there where anyone could just take it. It's no wonder the department still treats you like a Junior Auror. That's why they constantly have you working Diagon instead of out in the field, right?”

The last question has Draco rushing to his feet, moving closer to Harry until they're toe-to-toe because he’s not going to just sit there and be chastised like a child, “I’m _so_ sorry, Potter. I was a little preoccupied with you practically bleeding out in my arms!”

“As if that would matter if I had my wand in my hand! The wards on the door respond to my wand and my wand only. I’d be able to get out of here and catch—”

“—Catch whom, exactly? Are you going to explain what’s going on here?” He presses forward, backing Harry up against the door. If his wand worked he might be tempted to jab it into the other man’s throat. Instead, he gestures wildly between them, “Are you going to bother to tell me what the fuck is going on with us?”

Harry’s face shutters closed, “It doesn't concern you.”

“Doesn't concern me? Doesn't—are you kidding me? I came here for a cup of coffee and walked into an ambush. They had you cornered—”

“— _I_ had them cornered.”

“Yeah, sure,” Draco spits out with a scoff, “four against one. You really had them there, Potter. It's been a long time since the war. I don't care how many Dark Lords you’ve defeated, you’re still a civilian. I mean, you are a civilian, aren't you?”

Harry is uncharacteristically silent, then. He can see fear seeping into the other man's features, eclipsing the cool mask he’d attempted to put up a few moments prior. Draco pounces on the hesitation, “How many people know you work at the café, Potter?”

“Why?” Harry asks, and his defensive tone confirms everything. The bite in Harry’s tone has him reining in a snarl.

“Because I ran into Weasley last week. We were in the same cohort, remember? And he didn't seem to know about the café at all, much less the fact that you were working here.”

“How much—How much did you tell him?” 

“Why would it matter… unless you have something to hide from him?”

Everything is coalescing in Draco’s mind. Harry’s evasiveness. The dated stories. The identity charm on the café door. The changing café names. He had been _so_ stupid.

The thought makes him even angrier. So, he really does press his wand into the hollow of Harry’s throat. It's useless, but it's enough to make Harry squirm without a wand of his own. They’re practically touching, now, breathing in each other’s exhales. Draco can feel the heat of Harry’s body as though it were his own. A reckless, hopeful part of him thinks of that night in the café, when he’d called Harry by his first name for the first time, and wants to press even closer. “What are you hiding, really?”

Harry looks ready to explode. Draco waits, waits for Harry to yell or fight back, to devour Draco with his righteous, Gryffindorian fury. He’s waiting for Harry to slip up and reveal himself. It looks like he's going to do it, too, but when he takes a deep breath, his weight shifts, and Draco’s mind goes completely blank. He’s hard. Draco is too. Harry’s next words aren't a shout. They slip out through gritted teeth, choked, though, as if he’s holding back a gasp. Draco can't tell if it's because he’s noticed or if it's the wand still digging into his neck, “I— I’m an undercover Auror for the Ministry.”

And, although Draco knew something was wrong, Harry’s admission still strikes Draco like a Cruciatus. He’s about to rip himself away from Harry, overwrought with rage, with embarrassment, because the man who he’s been half-way in love with has been lying to him for the last few months, when Harry shifts forwards, suddenly, hand reaching out to push Draco’s wand away from his throat. The sharp movement has Harry’s hips grinding against his own, and Draco drops his wand, sparks of pleasure running up Draco’s spine, a low whine drawn from his lips. Against his own volition, he sways forward, instead of back as he intended. His hands instinctively grab at the front of Harry’s robes, for balance, but before he can stop himself they pull Harry closer, closer, _closer_ until their lips meet in a searing kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art you see in this chapter was created by the brilliant [anokaba](https://ano-ka-ba.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Chapter 4

Draco rips himself away from Harry, stumbling back, leaving him flushed and breathless against the door. 

His eyes zero in on Harry, who looks absolutely debauched. His hair falls in wild curls around his shoulders, mussed by Draco’s fingers. He looks like an oil painting like this, a sheen of sweat glinting off his forehead in the dim lighting, streaking through the dried blood on his face. His lips glisten, spit-slick and swollen. They had pressed against Draco’s own so ardently, so intoxicatingly, that Draco is tempted to step back into the other man’s arms. Harry looks like he might, like he’s completely forgotten the argument they were just having. He takes one step forward, arms already coming up to draw Draco near, and Draco punches him.

“Fuck!” hisses Harry, leaping back from Draco until he’s pressed up against the door again. His hand comes up to cup his cheek. “What the hell was that for?”

“You were going to kiss me!”

“You _just_ kissed me.”

“I— I didn't mean to,” Draco says, filled with some amalgamation of anger and humiliation, “You lied to me.” He hates how pathetic he sounds.

“Malfoy—”

He turns away, stalking to the other end of the room. “I don't want to hear it, Potter. Let's just figure out how to get out of here.”

He searches the back wall, fingers brushing over the walls, trying to find the edges of the wards. He can't. They seem to encircle the room entirely. He tries to shift through shelves next, looking for anything that might help—a tool to wrench the door open or a key to unlock it—but all he finds are rows upon rows of boxes. Even Draco, who’d spent his childhood sitting in parlours for high tea, hadn't realised so many varieties of tea leaves existed.

He continues to work at it, knowing that he must’ve missed his shift on Diagon by now. He wonders if the Aurors are looking for him. Or if they have noticed the skirmish at the café. He doubts it. Even if they find out that Harry and Draco are trapped in here, there's no guarantee that the Aurors would be able to get them out. It is safest to assume they're on their own for now.

Draco isn't quite sure how long he can handle being alone with Harry, though.

He knows the man is behind him, pacing, it sounds like, and prodding at the door. And if his muttered curses are anything to go by, he might even be attempting to dismantle the wards through wandless magic. Draco hates himself, a little bit, for how well he’s able to read the man with his back turned. Or, at least, how well he _thinks_ he can read the man.

Once again, he’s reminded that Harry has been lying to him for the past few weeks.

It takes everything in Draco not to turn around. To interrogate him about all the secrets and inconsistencies. To ask him what has been real and what hasn't. To figure out why he had nearly died today. The only thing stopping him is that Draco isn't sure if he can trust Harry to answer him honestly, not when he’s misled him so effortlessly. 

Draco’s inner battle and their earlier fight has left things tense between them. He can almost feel it in the air, a thread of electricity tying them together, crackling, like a Fiendfyre. It is only exacerbated by the fact that Draco can't stop thinking about their kiss. He can still feel Harry’s hands at his neck, his shoulders, his hips, like a phantom. The man’s hips pressing into his, hot breaths against his cheek, and broad, toned legs bracketing his own. He nearly aches with the need to turn around, to fling himself at Harry, to allow the taut lines of tension between them to snap back like a rubber band.

“Malfoy.”

The sound of his surname from Harry’s lips has his need disappearing in an instant, a bolt of pain running through him. He can't help but think about how he has spent the last few weeks calling Harry by his name, letting the syllables roll across his tongue with a sort of reverence he rarely gives to anyone else. And Harry hasn't even bothered to give him the same respect. Perhaps that should have been the first sign that something has been amiss. That this is not the Harry he had idolised throughout school, throughout the war. A kind man would not have betrayed him like this.

Draco turns around, though, because it's hard to ignore a man you’ve just kissed merely half an hour ago. A man you were nearly in love with half an hour ago.

Harry looks like he’s cleaned himself up, much to Draco's displeasure, as he's feeling rather grimy himself. He’s scrubbed away much of the dried blood on his person, perhaps in the miniscule washroom attached to the room. His torn robes are missing, too. Draco's treated to the sight of Harry in a button up, its first few buttons open, exposing a tantalising glimpse of his chest. 

He meets Harry's eyes. They feel as though they’re piercing into Draco, searching his face in short, hungry bursts. “What is it?” he says, voice tight, a fist of resentment around his throat.

“I think we just have to wait it out. Someone will have to notice your absence. The Aurors. Your friends.”

“And will anyone notice your own absence?”

“You know they won't.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” sneers Draco, “forgive me, Potter. I only just found out about your secret identity, after all.”

“How could I have told you?” asks Harry, brows furrowed, plump lips twisted into a scowl. He steps forward, and the small space between them becomes even smaller. “Really, Malfoy. Explain that to me. If you were in my position you would've done the same.”

“I’m not a part of your mission! Telling me won't jeopardise anything”

“You are,” snaps Harry and immediately looks like he regrets it.

“What,” says Draco, suddenly feeling rather lightheaded. 

“I shouldn't have said that.” He starts to turn away, to recede to his corner of the room.

Draco’s hand shoots out before he can stop himself, fingers wrapping around Harry’s wrist, “Don’t give me that bullshit. Not after earlier.”

Harry looks hesitant. “Please,” Draco says, feeling powerful like this, with Harry’s pulse spiking under his fingertips, “I just want to know what's going on. What's _really_ going on.” 

“I… I can't. I need time.”

Draco lets out an icy laugh. “Time to do what? Come up with another cover story?”

Harry doesn't reply. Draco wants to push him on it, to start another fight. He feels reckless, feels high on the tension between them, feels like a fight is the only way to avoid pressing closer and kissing him again. He feels like it's the end of fifth year again, when his father was sent to Azkaban and all he wanted to do is kick and punch and scream. He lets out a frustrated sigh instead.

“I deserve more than that,” says Draco. The words are awkward and clumsy in his head, but he thanks Merlin that they come out cool, collected, confident, as though he’s said them a million times before. “There's no way I have a major role in your investigation—you know me. You’ve been spending time with me for _weeks_. No Auror worth his salt would have let whatever the fuck this is go on for this long.”

Draco sinks to the floor, to sit because he's exhausted at this point. He sees the resignation flutter across Harry’s face, sees it in every line of his body as his legs fold under him to join Draco on the ground, before he hears it.“Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me why I’ve never seen you around the department.”

“I was recruited straight out of the war. Kingsley waived my NEWT requirements. Ron’s, too, but he wanted a break. I ended up being more of a distraction than anything. The other trainees were constantly fawning over me because the war had just ended, and I was a liability in the field. 

“Kingsley gave me an ultimatum when I graduated training: work at a desk for the rest of my life or work abroad as an undercover agent until all the fanfare died down.”

And, as much as Draco doesn't want to trust Harry, his answer makes sense. “And, has the fanfare died down? Why are you here?”

“You know it never will,” says Harry, “Robards needed an extra agent for the potions case you guys are working on. He saw that I was free and pulled me in.”

Harry tells him about how the potions dealers started marketing the potions to first year students, targeting the young, naive children while they were shopping for Hogwarts. Many of them, especially the Muggle-born children, didn't know any better than to accept the potion—which was promised to help them make new friends in the wizarding world—for an exorbitant price. It was also highly addictive. Harry had been assigned to monitor the Apparition point across the street for any sight of them, as September 1st was fast approaching.

Watching Harry as he speaks is riveting, just as it had been when he was entertaining Draco with stories about his friends and family a few weeks prior. The man is a fantastic Auror; that much is clear in the way he gives Draco all the information he knows without dithering around inconsequential details. Draco can also see that he’s passionate about the case. The enthusiasm Harry seemed to have when speaking to Draco about coffee is now being channelled into describing the facts he can recall about the potion.

When Harry finishes, he wants to ask him more, to figure out what else the man has been lying to him about, but his stomach growls—loudly, too—which has heat rushing to his cheeks. He realises just how much time has passed since they were first locked in here. It must be nighttime.

“You're hungry,” says Harry.

“You aren't?”

Harry walks over to the small cabinet Draco had been poking at earlier and pulls out some pre-packaged sandwiches. They're the same ones Harry sells in the café. He hands one to Draco along with a plastic water bottle.

They eat it in silence, barely a metre apart from each other on the floor. It's hard to keep himself from talking. From asking Harry for another story. He’s grateful for it, though, as it gives him time to really _think_ about what Harry’s told him so far.

And Draco has to think about it, because it's become evident that he hasn't been thinking for the past few months. He’s combed over Harry’s words what feels like a hundred times by the time he’s chewing on the last bite of his sandwich. They seem to be true. Harry seems to be telling the truth. But the worst thing about all of this is not that he can no longer trust Harry, it's that he can no longer trust himself.

And he had worked so hard to learn how to trust himself after the war. After his decisions had nearly ruined his life. He had regained it slowly—by going back to Hogwarts, by pursuing a career with the Aurors, by trying to be a good person—and had lost it in seconds. For what? For his feelings?

They lie down on opposite sides of the room to sleep. Or, they attempt to sleep on opposite sides of the room. It's longer than it is wide, so to stretch out fully, they're forced to lie next to one another. Draco worries about keeping his distance and holds himself very still to avoid rolling onto Harry. 

Harry has turned off the light, so Draco is lying on his side, taking advantage of the invisibility the dark provides him. He tries to make out the shape of the other man’s profile in the dark, tries to follow the rise and fall of his chest. He can't tell if Harry is asleep or not. A small part of him hopes that he isn't, that he's thinking of Draco too, however unlikely that may be.

It takes him far too long to fall asleep.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning to the sound of Harry pacing at the door. 

He gets up slowly, taking the time to stretch. His back aches from a night on the floor. As he cranes his neck from side to side, he catches Harry looking at him, an indecipherable emotion in his eyes. 

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” says Harry, a flush of red spreading across his cheeks, and then, “No one came.”

“No one knows we’re here.”

“Won’t the Aurors be looking for you?”

“None of them care enough to do so. They’re probably happy the Junior Auror finally fucked off, right?” Draco’s tone is bitter as he echoes what Harry called him the night before.

“Hey—” starts Harry, stepping closer. 

“Don't.”

Harry looks like he wants to say more, but Draco cuts in and changes the subject. “Do you have any more food?”

Harry heads towards the small cabinet he’d gotten the sandwiches from last night and pulls out what looks like a couple of breakfast pastries. It strikes Draco as odd because the cabinet is no bigger than a shoe box. There's no way it should be able to fit as much food as it seems to.

“Is there an Undetectable Extension charm on that?”

“No,” says Harry, “there's usually only a couple of food items in there at a time for emergencies.”

“And… it just appears?” asks Draco incredulously.

“Er, yeah, I suppose it does.”

Draco is immediately reminded of the Vanishing Cabinet, which had been able to do the same. If… if this cabinet is the same, and if it allows for things to travel both ways, this could be their key out.

He kneels in front of the cabinet, opens it, and finds it delightfully empty, as Harry said it would be. “And, you didn't think to question how the food got here? It didn't concern you that the cabinet would be stocked at random?”

He looks up at Harry, who appears rather sheepish, “Robards said everything would be taken care of. I assumed this was what he meant.”

“And, where do you think the cabinet is connected to?”

Harry holds up the croissants in his hand for closer inspection. “It looks like… Pret a Manger.”

Draco feels a bit scandalised at this. “You’ve been selling pastries from Pret as your own?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, defensive, “It's not like this is a real café!”

Draco rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the cabinet. He pulls a bag of tea bags from the shelves and places it in the cabinet, shuts the door, and counts to one-hundred-and-twenty. It's muscle memory to him. 

“If this works, it’ll be just like the Vanishing Cabinet.” 

“Like the Vanishing Cabinet,” repeats Harry, voice strained from above him.

He looks up at Harry, and guilt courses through him at the sight of his expression, all hard lines and contours. “I’m sorry—”

Harry shakes his head, “No, no, you don't have to do this.”

“I do,” says Draco, firm, “I’m sorry. For how I treated you during school. For what I did during the war.”

“You were a kid—”

“So were you. There was no excuse for what I did. I— I want to be better.”

Harry nods, the lines of his face softening, tempered by Draco’s apology. “Thank you.”

Draco opens the cabinet door. The box is gone. “It worked,” he says with a startled laugh.

Harry kneels beside him to see for himself. For a split-second, they're connected, thigh to hip to shoulder, until Harry shifts forward to look further inside the cabinet. Draco isn't sure if he's disappointed or grateful.

“It did,” breathes out Harry, and when he looks at Draco, he’s smiling, “you’re bloody brilliant, Malfoy.”

They're so close, faces merely a hair's breadth away from each other. He wants to be angry. He wants to draw up all of his frustration from the night before. But Harry’s praise soothes Draco like a balm, calming him, tempting him to inch forward, to claim Harry’s mouth with his own. Harry seems to sense it too, his green eyes eclipsed by dilated pupils, his body angled towards Draco’s. The entire world seems to close in around him, narrowing its focus to Harry, Harry, _Harry._

Suddenly, a number of tea bag boxes fall off the shelf above them, cascading over their heads and causing them to leap apart from one another. A stack had been thrown off balance when Draco had grabbed a box to Vanish, he remembers belatedly. Harry scrambles up, red tinting his brown skin, and stammers that he’s off to find a notepad upon which to write a message to the Ministry. Draco is left alone, breathless, heart beating faster than the wings of a Hippogriff.

When Harry returns a few moments later, message in hand, Draco’s calmed himself down a bit. Harry puts the message in the cabinet, and when he opens it again, it's gone.

“Who did you send for?”

“Ron.”

“Ron?” he asks, unable to keep the disbelief from his tone. “He told me he didn't even know the café existed!” 

“He didn't. But, he owled me last week because _someone_ had asked him why he hated coffee, and the only people who knew that little tidbit about him were the Weasleys, Hermione, and myself.” 

“And me.”

“And you,” confirms Harry before continuing, “That's where I was last week. Visiting the Weasley’s, Hermione, and Ron and telling them where I’ve been the past few years. I’ve spent the last few years abroad alone. It was time to change that.”

Draco swallows and tries to hide how Harry’s words hurt him. It is so clear that he will never hold a candle to Harry’s family, that he will never be enough for Harry. It was foolish for him to have even considered it in the first place.

He clears his throat, “So, we just have to wait for Weasley?”

“Yes,” says Harry, “the witches at Pret love Ron, so they’ll surely pass on the message.”

Draco nods and leans back onto the cabinet. For the first time in his life, he's grateful to a Weasley.

* * *

The door bangs open a few hours later.

Draco has to shield his eyes from the bright sun that shines into the dark supply closet. Weasley stands at the open door, red hair backlit by the light, making it appear as though he’s highlighted in gold. He looks every bit the Auror Draco should be, wand in hand, shoulders clad in red robes that are pristine in comparison to Draco's own.

“Harry!” he says first, and then, “Wait, Malfoy’s here too? We’ve been looking all over for you, mate.”

Draco shrugs, unsure how to respond. There is too much to explain. Harry steps in, saving him from having to respond, and pulls Ron in for a hug. “Thanks for getting us out of here.”

“Of course,” he hears, Ron’s voice muffled by Harry’s hair. He thinks Ron's eyes look a little teary. Then, more quietly, “Are you alright?”

Draco averts his eyes, trying to give them some modicum of privacy. They catch up for a bit, talking in what sounds like code. Something born from knowing one another for fifteen years, he’s sure. He misses Pansy, suddenly, and hopes that he’ll remember to call her and fill her in on the disastrous turn his life had taken.

They leave the room soon after that, shoes heavy over broken glass and crumbs of food. The morning sun blazes through the open windows, unyielding, oblivious to the battle that had occurred the night prior. The pictures on the wall are scorched or shattered; the chairs lie strewn about; and the string lights tangle in a heap on the floor. Even the walls, which had once been a gentle pale blue, are covered in a layer of ash. The entire café is ruined. Without a wand, it would be unsalvageable. 

He hears a sharp intake of breath from beside him, and his head snaps towards it. It’s Harry, who, standing at the center of it all, seems to be taking in the scene before them for the very first time. His face is crumpled with something akin to mourning, and the sight of it belies his words from earlier. Draco suspects that, to Harry, this had been a ‘real café’ after all.

Weasley, though clearly confused, seems to pick up on the fact that something is wrong. His blue eyes flicker between Draco and Harry for a moment before he says, “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

They’re alone. They stand in silence, not looking at each other, and it feels not tense, but unbearably awkward. It’s foreign to Draco, who's so used to knowing exactly where things stand between Harry and himself. They're either fighting or not fighting. Friends or not friends. Not whatever _this_ is.

Draco turns to face Harry, wincing as he steps into the remnants of what appears to be a cranberry-orange scone. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” replies Harry, shaking his head, “This wasn't your fault.”

“No, but… this place clearly meant something to you.”

“I enjoyed it, you know? Working in a coffee shop. That part was true,” says Harry, and Draco’s taken back to their first conversation. Harry’s eyes stare into his own, open, vulnerable, and he knows the man is thinking the same. 

“Potter—” starts Draco, a barrage of questions flooding his mind. What else between them has been true? Has he been imagining the heat between them? The feelings? 

“Later.” Harry cuts him off, picking up his wand, which lies abandoned by his feet, as though it has been drawn to him the same way everyone is drawn to him. The way Draco is drawn to him. He walks towards the front door.

Draco takes a few steps forward, intending to catch up with the other man, “Later?”

Harry turns back before Draco reaches him, leaving him frozen in place. He cranes his neck to face Draco and gives him a small smile that's completely different from what he’s been seeing these past few months. His grin is as sharp a knife’s edge, but the corners are soft, familiar. “We’ll be meeting again soon, won’t we? To work on the case?”

The words leave Draco completely speechless because he has assumed that he will never see Potter again after this. That he will be back at his post on Diagon in a few hours. “I mean—Robards—”

“I’ll take care of Robards,” he says, as if he wouldn't be going up against the Head fucking Auror. “After today, it's clear that we need you on the case.”

He steps out of the café easily, as though he hasn't just changed Draco's entire life with a few of his words.

* * *

It takes a couple of days to get all the paperwork in order, but for the first time in his career, Draco is assigned to work an active case.

Weasley continues to take the lead on the case—Mosbey, having heard that they would be receiving some extra help, has decided to take leave for a couple of weeks—and spends much of his time in interrogation rooms and on stake-outs, but Harry and Draco cover the backend of things, mostly doing research and working on tracking the perpetrators down. And, with Harry’s cover at the café blown and his presence too much of a distraction at the Ministry, they spend much of their time in Draco’s flat. 

Draco’s flat is a tiny little place in a posh wizarding district adjacent to Diagon Alley. It had cost him a fortune, but he had gleefully spent the last of Father’s money on it in a post-war shopping spree. It was the least he deserved after being dragged into all that fascist pure-blood nonsense by the man.

His involvement in the war was partly his fault too, of course, but it was no secret that his parents had raised him into it. So, in a belated show of teenage rebellion, he bought a luxurious magical apartment. He hasn't really thought to be concerned about its size until Harry comes to stay with him, the location of his own flat having been compromised alongside that of the café.

Because suddenly, in the presence of Harry, who dominates every room like a bloody Patronus, his flat feels like a shoebox, no more than a living room with a closet of a kitchen, an attached bedroom and bath that you had to squint to see. Hardly enough space for two people.

So he tries to keep his distance from Harry. It should be easy because his flat is much bigger than the closet they had been trapped in, but he keeps running into Harry at every corner. In the kitchen, he finds the man making good use of his French press, which he had received from Pansy two Christmasses prior, and practically fellating the spoon he’s used to stir sugar into his brew. He runs into him outside the washroom on more than one occasion and is forced to reckon with the sight of him with only one of Draco’s towels wrapped around his hips. When they're working on the case together, in Draco's living room, the man claims Draco’s couch as his own and spends his time reading through files of evidence with a furrowed brow and clenched jaw, his jumper riding up to expose a tantalising sliver of bronze flesh above the waistline of his joggers.

The biggest test of Draco's personal boundaries, though, is when they realise they have to share a bed. Draco's couch is far too small for either of them to sleep on, and it seems impractical to forgo a good night’s rest for the sake of privacy alone. 

Sharing a bed with Harry, however, turns out to be a blessing in disguise. As much as Harry seems to have made himself comfortable in Draco’s flat, he seems unsure of how to speak to Draco, oscillating between stilted small talk and details about the case. When nightfall strikes and they lie side by side on Draco’s bed, facing one another, Harry’s tongue loosens up, and they talk through their pasts. Everything from the war to how they’ve spent the last seven years. 

The only thing they don't talk about is the last few months they've spent together at the café. The time Draco's spent falling for Harry. And now, nearly a week after that night in the supply closet, Draco has come to terms with the fact that he no longer has feelings for him. Feelings for the old Harry, that is.

It is tempting to wonder what it would have been like if he’d asked Harry on that date, if the other man had been nothing more than a barista. But, as he spends more time with Harry—the real Harry—Draco comes to realise that he had fallen for a caricature of the man. As a barista, Harry was uncomplicated, quiet and unfailingly kind. Faultless but flat.

It's a joy, learning just how complicated the man really is.

Draco knows that Harry was quiet because he was a good listener, a trait that makes him a fantastic undercover Auror. But, he also has a tendency to get lost in his thoughts, a byproduct of spending so much of his career working alone, and Draco spends more than a few hours trying to decipher his train of thought. Harry’s not always kind, but he’s passionate. Sometimes he lashes out, frustrated at Robards’s latest progress report, and other times he’s overinvolved. He’s constantly checking up on Mosbey and Weasley to see if they're alright, if there's anything they need help with, never quite trusting their answers. 

The difference is clear at night, too. Harry still tells him his stories, but Draco hadn't realised how devoid of Harry’s personality they had been. Now, they're peppered with sharp, witty comments and each one is accompanied by a long, rambling aside. Draco spends more than a few nights overcome by laughter, hands clutching at his aching stomach.

He’s by no means a perfect man, but he's more fleshed out, visceral, less like someone liable to slip through Draco’s fingers. It's no surprise, then, when Draco finds himself pining for Harry once again, his daydreams about the man keeping him up far longer than his nightly conversations with Harry last.

In spite of this, Draco is still grappling with the fact that he doesn't know how Harry feels about him. He thought he had an inkling before the attack on the café but now, when all he has to go off is the tension that seems to coil around them whenever they are in the same room, it seems much less clear.

Two weeks into Harry’s stay at Draco’s flat, Harry kisses him.

They're in bed, facing one another, legs tangled together under the bedsheets. Harry reaches out, suddenly, and pulls Draco into his embrace. There, surrounded by Harry's scent and Harry’s skin and Harry's warmth, all he can think to do is melt into the feeling of Harry's lips moving against his, swallowing him whole. Until it hits him.

Draco pulls away, gasping, “I can't.”

“Why? What's wrong?” Harry, hands on Draco’s cheeks, tries to pull him back in. Draco resists, wrenching his head away from Harry’s grasp and turning onto his back.

“I— I’m sorry— I just can't— I don't trust you.”

“Is this about me being undercover? I told you that I had no choice. I couldn't just blow my cover—”

“—I’m not angry about that.” Draco cuts him off, equal parts angry and embarrassed. “I would've done the same, but I have no idea what was real and what wasn't. I have no idea how much of… of whatever we were was just a part of your act.”

“Everything I felt for you was real.” 

“How can you expect me to believe that when half of the things you told me were based on lies? I hardly know anything about you, nevermind how you _felt_.” He has gotten glimpses of the real Harry over the past few weeks, yes, but it isn't enough for him to say he truly knows him. 

“Malfoy—”

“—You can't even call me by my first name, Harry! You’re no different than you were before the attack. I’m not sure why I thought otherwise.”

“ _Draco_ ,” amends Harry after a few beats of silence, “look at me. Please.”

He can't. If he does, he’ll give in, he’ll surrender himself to Harry, with no thought to his feelings, to his dignity. “Draco,” repeats Harry.

He turns his head. He can hardly see Harry’s face in the dark, but he thinks he can just make out the sheen of his green eyes, reflecting the moonlight that filters in through the window behind Draco. He can still feel the ghost of Harry's lips on his own, tender and insistent. It takes an insurmountable amount of energy not to touch the other man.

Harry's hand finds its way to Draco's chin, anchoring him in place, and he says, “We can start again. I won’t lie to you. I won't try and keep my distance—that's, that's why I never said your name. I couldn't. Not if I didn't want to get attached. Let's try again. There won't be a case in the way of things. It’ll just be you and me. Draco, it’ll be so easy.”

Draco wants to believe him. Badly. It would be easy to come to Harry when called, his name still foreign and uncomfortable between the other man’s lips. It would be easy to pretend like he was fine with staying back to spend an eternity on Diagon whilst Harry went off, again and again, to save the world as an undercover agent. It would be easy to slip into Harry’s desperate arms, to fold himself into his needy embrace. It would be easy to invest himself in a future that would be doomed from the start.

“I need time,” says Draco and turns away. Nothing in his life had ever come easy.


	5. Chapter 5

“And the charm on the door? The changing café names?” asks Draco the next afternoon, realising that he has never questioned Harry about it.

Harry brightens up at that, mischievous smile blooming across his features. “I can't believe you caught those! They were implemented by the Department of Mysteries to help with anonymity.”

“Not that it helped much, in the end.”

“No,” says Harry, his smile slipping off his face. Draco misses it immediately.

They sit on the floor in Draco’s living room, reviewing the latest interrogation transcripts Weasley has provided them with. Draco’s reviewing them on his laptop, which still makes Harry laugh whenever he sees Draco using it. Draco can't blame Harry for being incredulous about it. His younger self would never have believed that one day he’d be using Muggle technology for work, but he loves how easy it is to summon information with the device, its smooth interface a sort of magic in itself. 

Harry is a much more tactile person and prefers to review the documents by hand, making haphazard notes in the margins and dog-earring pages he wants to return to. A part of Draco still wishes for the times when Harry's hands were on him, brushing over his own across their booth at the café, tangling in his hair the night before. He wonders if that was the last time he will ever feel them.

Takeaway containers from the Indian place across from Draco’s flat lie sprawled out between them—pav bhaji for Draco and biryani for Harry, spoons of each scattered between them. The television, which Draco has charmed to stream a match of Quidditch, plays softly in the background, filling the silence that has fallen upon them since Harry’s reply. 

Things haven't been too awkward since Draco rejected Harry. There isn't much room for awkwardness, anyways, with how small Draco’s flat is. So, they’ve both been acting as though their conversation never happened, instead focusing their attention on the case and keeping their conversation limited to safer topics, like their favourite subjects at Hogwarts or Quidditch statistics.

That's not to say that Draco doesn't still crave Harry like a vial of Felix Felicis, but he knows that, for now, this is for the best. He can't afford to be hurt again.

“There's a mole in the Ministry,” says Draco to break the silence between them, “maybe they outed you.”

Harry’s head whips up from his notes. “Who told you that?”

“Weasley.”

“Ron? Huh,” says Harry, as though he can't quite believe he and Weasley actually talk to one another willingly, “I’m glad. Robards should've included you on the case.”

“He doesn't trust me. I’m sure you can imagine why.”

“He should,” is all Harry says, green eyes vibrant, clear, earnest. “But, I knew about the mole. Robards told me long before he assigned the case to Ron. He, er, suspected it was someone in the department.”

Harry's hesitation tells him all he needs to know. “He thought it was me. That's why he didn't put me on the case. That's why you said your case concerned me.”

“I know it’s not you.”

“Do you?” mutters Draco to himself, and then, louder, “Who else knew you were stationed at the café besides… Robards?”

“I—” starts Harry, “you think it's Robards?”

“Weasley did, too. He’s the only one who had access to the case files _and_ knew about you being assigned to the café.” 

“Well…”

“What?” he asks, “Did someone else know about you being there?”

“Only Robards. And Ron, of course, but he only found out a week before the attack.”

He clears his throat. “That still doesn't tell us who the mole is. It's definitely not Weasley. The only other person who could have learned about your role in the case in such a short amount of time was—”

“—Mosbey,” they finish together.

* * *

Thomas Mosbey had been in Slytherin. Draco remembers him, vaguely, as a classmate who didn't quite fit in with the rest of their peers. He's a pure-blood, but he doesn't come from wealth, and that bred a hunger for money into his bloodline. Draco’s most distinct memories of the man had been of his attempts to make a quick Galleon by selling whatever he could find: charmed quills one year, answers to McGonagall’s Transfiguration exams the next. The other Slytherins had given him a wide berth, as no amount of money ever made up for the fact that he hadn't been born into it.

He has never quite lost his desire to have a Gringotts’ vault full of gold, and a job as an Auror doesn't pay as well as it used to in the aftermath of the war. This led him into the underbelly of a potions trafficking ring at the beginning of last year.

Or, at least, that's what he tells Harry, Draco, and Weasley.

They have him cornered in a Ministry interrogation room, all three wands trained at his throat. He looks a little worse for wear. Greasy, blond hair lies matted against his head and deep streaks of purple line his eyes. His skin looks thin, sallow. Draco is certain that the man spent his leave trying to keep the Aurors off his trail, staging pointless interrogations and uneventful stake outs, creating an unwieldy paper trail for Harry and Draco to circle around. 

He faces them, wand out, crouched in the defensive pose they’d had drilled into them in Auror training. He had monologued for a while after they’d told him they knew he was the mole, had gone on about how he had had no choice, how he had needed the money. Mosbey’s spiel finally ends with, “It's unfortunate that you can't prove any of this.”

“Is that so?” says Draco, his eyes level with Mosbey’s. He’s standing to the side of Harry and Weasley and, from the corner of his eye, he sees them share a glance. They haven't spoken about this.

And to be completely honest, he’s nervous. He hadn't expected to be in the room with Harry and Weasley, to be facing Mosbey head-on. He has never worked a real case before, has never done much of anything during his time with the Aurors, and he assumed that Harry and Weasley would leave him behind as Robards always has. But when Harry and Draco had told Weasley about their suspicions a few days prior, Weasley had demanded they all confront Mosbey together. There was safety in numbers, he had claimed, before Draco could argue.

They had made plans to interrogate Mosbey whenever he returned to the Ministry from his leave of absence, and when they were alerted that he had arrived from the Portkey Office, they sprang into action. Draco hasn't had time to tell Weasley and Harry about—

“—What?” barks Mosbey, interrupting his train of thought. An incredulous laugh bubbles from his lips, “You have dirt on me, Malfoy? You actually discovered something while babysitting pedestrians on Diagon?”

He doesn't rise to the bait and instead takes a moment to steel himself before pulling his shrunken laptop from the pocket of his robes. He takes his time resizing it, eyes never leaving Mosbey’s, and suppresses a smile at the way the man’s mouth drops open at the sight of Draco with a Muggle computer. “Well, you made it rather easy for me, Mosbey. What with you publishing all your plans on the bloody internet.”

Mosbey pales at that, probably recalling all the posts he’s made on his MySpace profile, which Draco stumbled upon by chance. He doesn't often venture to the Muggle side of the internet, finding the Wizarding Wide Web to be far more useful, but it had occurred to him, while poking around for leads online, that the Muggle internet would be the perfect place for a pure-blood wizard to hide.

And, it _had_ been perfect. Most of the wizarding world are still decades behind Muggles in regard to technology. Mosbey would have had no reason to suspect that he would be found out by a pure-blood, of all people.

“Fuck you, Malfoy!” shouts Mosbey, sending a Blasting Curse at the laptop before Draco can open it. It explodes, sending sharp shards of metal flying and Draco, Harry, and Weasley leaping back. Harry surges forward, ready to attack, but Draco catches his wrist, holding him back.

Then he's stepping forward, unable to quell the smug grin pulling at his features, “Oh, Mosbey. I didn't think you thought so little of me. What kind of Auror would I be if I hadn't saved screenshots of your posts to a USB drive?”

The words have Mosbey lunging forward, mouth stretched into a ferocious snarl. His wand slashes through the air, sending a fiery red hex Draco’s way. He dodges, and the room bursts into action. Weasley leaves the room, presumably to call for back-up, and Harry starts sending spells towards Mosbey. The man is fast, though, and twists out of the way of Harry’s spells with ease.

Draco can't help but position himself in front of Harry, protecting him from the onslaught of curses Mosbey directs towards them. He knows the man is a highly skilled Auror, that he has years of experience over Draco, but fear lingers in the back of his mind. He still remembers how Harry looked on the floor of the café’s backroom, unconscious and bloody.

Mosbey notices, of course, and starts sending spells at Harry whenever Draco has to dart to the side to avoid attack. He tries to ignore it, tries to remember that Harry is competent enough to avoid the curses or cast a good Protego, but his eyes inevitably stray to the other man every time a bolt of magic flies his way, scanning him for any sign of pain, for injuries.

His distraction gets the best of him a few seconds later, when a nasty hex catches him in the chest. He stumbles back, white hot pain shooting through him and dark spots blooming across his vision. Harry is in front of him in seconds, his body a barrier between him and Mosbey’s next few spells.

Draco struggles to stand up straight but manages when he sees Mosbey pause, as though he’s gearing up for something big. Time seems to slow down. Mosbey’s wand draws out a long, complicated movement, and he seems to be hissing something indecipherable. Harry tries to attack him, but he has a Shield Charm up, sending all of Harry’s attempts rebounding back towards them. Draco wants to push Harry out of the way but pain radiates through him at any sudden move. He’s trapped in place behind Harry, stuck trying to catch a glimpse of Mosbey over Harry's broad shoulder. 

Mosbey’s shield drops for a second, the last few lines of his curse slipping from his lips. Draco thrusts his arm into the air, swallowing back a cry of pain, and casts, “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Harry and Mosbey’s wands sail into Draco’s empty hand. He stares at them, disbelieving for a moment, heart racing and breath exploding out of his chest. Did he really just do that?

“Draco!” calls Harry, and suddenly he registers the way Mosbey and Harry are tangled together, arms braced around one another, struggling for power. Harry slips out of the other man's grasp and spins towards Draco, one arm extending out, his palm open. Draco uses all of his energy to throw Harry his wand, the movement leaving him breathless with pain.

Harry restrains Mosbey, who hurls vitriol at them both while fighting the invisible ropes that wrap around him. The sight has Draco sinking to his knees, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. All of the tension he’s been carrying since the start of the meeting flows out of him.

Harry's at his side in an instant. He crouches down, hands sliding over Draco’s shoulders, pressing at his chest, checking for injuries. “Draco, darling—let me—are you—does it hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he wheezes out, unsure if the clench of his heart is from the hex or because of _darling._ The words don't seem to assure Harry, his worry still evident in the furrow of his brow, in the line of his jaw. His hands come up to cradle Draco’s face, as though concerned he might slip away. Draco leans into his warmth, lips pressing into Harry’s palm. After seeing Harry in danger again, Draco doesn't think he’ll ever be able to let the man out of his sight.

The Aurors burst in eventually. Weasley, followed by Robards, followed by an assortment of Aurors and Field Healers from St Mungo’s. Harry doesn't leap away from him, as Draco expects him to. Instead, he presses in closer, hunching over Draco protectively until the Healers force him to stand back. 

He hears rather than sees Mosbey being taken away by the other Aurors as he's tended to by the Healers. Harry, still hovering over him, is reluctantly pulled away by Weasley to debrief Robards. And although Harry is across the room, Draco can feel the weight of his eyes on him. He looks up, peering over the shoulder of the Healer attending to him, and meets Harry’s gaze. He can't look away, doesn't want to look away, entirely captivated by the genuine desire in Harry's eyes, his emotions unclouded by deceit or infatuation.

After a few quick spells, the Healers tell him he’s fine, to take it easy for the next few days while his body recovers. They leave him sitting up against the interrogation room wall, waiting. To see if this changes anything about his role in the department, to see if the kernel of hope in Draco's chest is worth having.

A part of him can't help but think that it is. He’s proud of himself for the research he has conducted, the evidence he has gathered about Mosbey's involvement, and the Expelliarmus he cast that led to Mosbey’s arrest. For the first time since graduating from training, Draco feels like a real Auror. Like someone deserving of Robards’s respect.

He’s crushed when all Robards says to him before walking out the door is a sparse, “Good work, Malfoy.” 

It's the same ‘ _good work, Malfoy,’_ he got after graduating from training without a case assignment like the others in his cohort. The same ‘ _good work, Malfoy,’_ called out to him whenever he is assigned to work holidays, to cover the night shift, to stay on desk duty. The same ‘ _good work, Malfoy,’_ he hears from Robards every time he comes back to the office from Diagon. The words are meaningless, patronising and empty and utterly exhausting to hear.

He stands and follows Robards out into the corridor, fully intending to quit. What comes out instead is, “I deserve a promotion.”

Robards turns around, eyes like stone, “You’re already a fully trained Auror, Malfoy. Unless you want my job, I’m not sure what you're asking of me.”

“I’m asking you to stop treating me like a trainee,” says Draco, proud that his voice comes out sharp and unwavering, cold enough to be his father’s. Harry and Weasley have scrambled out behind them, at some point. Draco can just make out their profiles on either side of him from the corners of his eyes.

“I do not—”

“How many Aurors from my cohort have you sent out to Diagon?”

“Well—”

“ _How many?_ ”

Robards deflects, still standing tall, “You don't have a partner. Where the hell am I supposed to put you?”

“Would it have been impossible for me to work with another pair of Aurors?”

Draco knows what Robards is going to say before he says it. He glances skywards, frustrated enough to want to end the conversation here. Robards says, “The Auror Code of Conduct—”

“—You're making excuses!” barks Harry, appearing at his shoulder, all thunderous fury and wild, ready-to-explode magic. 

“No matter what the code says, Draco surely deserves to be treated with respect. He practically saved our bollocks back there by disarming Mosbey and giving us grounds to arrest him. Partner him with Ron or give him my job, for all I care.”

Draco’s mouth drops open at the way Harry casually offers up his job to Draco. Robards looks equally taken aback before he manages a strangled, “And you?”

“I quit,” says Harry. Weasley lets out a startled laugh from behind him. Robards starts spluttering, his face turning an alarming shade of red. Draco, however, can't keep his eyes off of Harry, who doesn't have an ounce of regret on his face. Confidence is written into the upwards tilt of his chin, the long line of his spine, and the gleam in his eyes. He looks calm, more collected than Draco's ever been in his life.

In an instant, Draco knows that he loves Harry. He’s completely and wholeheartedly in love with this man who doesn't speak over him, who doesn't dismiss him, but supports and believes in him. He finally feels like he can chase after a future with this man, which was something he'd been worried about when Harry had kissed him a few nights ago, when it still felt like Harry was just a day or two away from leaving him behind, from going off on another undercover mission. He can only hope that Harry genuinely loves him in return. 

Waiting to find out is a risk Draco feels ready to take.

Draco doesn't quite remember getting back to his flat, too shocked to really think. He knows that he and Harry fled through the Ministry Floo and that Weasley had stayed back to deal with Robards and the aftermath of the case. He can't remember the journey from the Auror Department to the Atrium, though, or what Weasley had said to Harry at the time. What he does remember, however, is Harry’s hand clutching his, grounding him. 

“You quit?” is the first thing out of Draco's mouth when they're both out of the Floo, “Just like that?”

Harry smiles, that same smile he’d given Draco in the coffee shop after the attack, small and sharp and soft and what Draco’s come to consider entirely _Harry_. “I mean… yes? I’d been planning to do it for ages, anyways. This seemed like as good of a time as any. I want to slow down for a bit. Maybe make some more coffee.”

“And, telling Robards to promote me—was that a part of your plan?” 

“After what you did in there? Of course. You saved us, Draco. Without you, Mosbey would've gotten away or shifted the blame to someone else.”

“Oh—I mean—thank you.”

“Don't thank me,” says Harry, and Draco’s heart stutters in his chest. He’s light-headed, still riding the high of the fight and the confrontation with Robards, so when Harry steps closer, his proximity only heightens the sensation. “I did it because I care about you.”

Draco kisses him. It's slow, indulgent, and everything their previous kisses haven't been. He takes his time, tries to memorise the feeling of Harry's lips, soft and insistent, against his. It feels like relief, Harry’s lips moving over his own. Something he’s wanted for a long, long time finally achieved. Like catching a Snitch after off-season.

Draco’s mouth shifts to the corner of Harry’s lips, to the delicate arch of his cheekbone. His hands curl around Harry’s back, fingers sliding into the man’s dark hair to hold him in place as he kisses the edge of Harry’s jaw, the slope of his neck. Breathy little gasps slip from Harry’s lips, their sound winding around Draco’s heart, spurring him on. He wants to get lost in the feeling of Harry's skin under his lips, its warmth, the fluttering of his pulse.

He does, almost, but Harry's hands cling to his hips and grind their cocks together, and any semblance of control is completely gone. A rush of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots through him, pulling a loud groan from his lips. Harry takes the opportunity to capture Draco’s lips with his own, to pin him against the fireplace with his body. It’s a dizzying display of power that leaves Draco breathless, his hips canting upwards into Harry’s, begging for more. 

“Harry—” he gasps out, pulling away from the man, “—bedroom. Please.”

Harry looks gorgeous like this, with his hair mussed and mouth open. Short, shallow breaths escape his swollen, spit-slick lips, and Draco can see a tantalising bit of tongue peeking out from behind his teeth. The sight’s nearly enough to undo him, nearly enough to convince Draco to go in for another kiss. He doesn't, though, because his cock throbs insistently in his trousers. He isn't sure how much longer he can wait to devour Harry whole.

They make it to the bedroom, somehow, with Draco’s hands ghosting over Harry’s skin, and Harry's lips coasting over his own. His teeth nibble at the juncture between neck and shoulder, and Harry's fingers tug at Draco's clothes. Both of them are naked by the time they reach the bed. Draco’s under Harry, mewling as he grinds into him. His thighs rise up to wrap around Harry’s hips, and the pressure of Harry's cock against his has him seeing stars.

Harry pulls back, reluctantly, as though it's a struggle to pull himself away. He looks as debauched as Draco feels. “Draco,” he says, voice quiet.

“Harry,” mirrors Draco, unable to keep the yearning from his voice. His hands clutch at the man's broad shoulders, trying desperately to pull him closer.

“Are you sure you want this?”

“Darling,” he murmurs, echoing Harry from earlier, one hand coming up to cup Harry’s face, long fingers spreading out over the arch of his cheekbone. He could lose himself in the way Harry looks when he says that, the way pleasure softens up his features. “I want you more than anything.”

Draco places a kiss on Harry's brow. “You gave me the chance to prove myself.” He gives another on the bridge of his nose. “You stood up for me in front of Robards.” He presses more to Harry’s neck, his ear, his jaw, the corner of his eye. “You care about me.”

“I do,” confirms Harry, and it's all Draco needs to hear. He thrusts his hips upwards, moaning as Harry's cock slides against his own. Harry slips one hand between them, his thick, calloused fingers wrapping around both of them and Draco melts, allowing himself to unravel, to get swept away in Harry’s ministrations.

Draco’s eventually coherent enough to flip them over, laughing at Harry’s startled expression when he finds himself under Draco rather than hovering over him. He makes his way down Harry's body, fingers trailing over his dark nipples, mouth sucking at the wide expanse of brown skin laid out before him. He relishes in Harry’s groans, the way Harry's hands end up tangled in Draco’s hair, unable to keep himself still.

Draco makes a point to hover over Harry’s hips, to let his breaths ghost over Harry's hard cock, which juts out obscenely from a thatch of dark, curly hair. It's gorgeous, flushed and dripping with precome, long enough that Draco can't wait to have it inside him. 

“Draco,” whines Harry, low and plaintive. Anticipation looks good on him; it's evident in the tension in his shoulders, the arch of his back, the way he squirms under Draco’s gaze. Sweat trails down Harry's torso, gathering in the glorious contours of his muscles, the hidden crevices of his body Draco has yet to know. He wants to lick it off. Instead, Draco swallows him down, eliciting a loud cry from the other man. 

Much like he had with their kiss, Draco wants to take his time with this. It's a slow slide down Harry's prick, his mouth a tight seal over its hard length. He loves the way Harry takes up so much space in his mouth, his cock heavy on Draco’s tongue, it's tip pressing into the back of his throat. 

Harry seems to love it too, thrusting shallowly into Draco’s mouth. Draco takes it as if he were born for it, breathes in through his nose as Harry uses his mouth for his own pleasure. He’s just as hard as Harry is, grinding his hips into the mattress at the sounds Harry’s making, delicious little moans Draco wants to save in a Pensieve. 

He lifts off of Harry soon after, unable to bear the thought of coming without Harry's cock thrusting into him. Harry sits up, props himself up against Draco’s headboard, and pulls Draco close to kiss him. Harry’s hands glide down his back, lingering at his hips. Draco tries to press himself as close to Harry as he can, allowing himself to be engulfed by the heat of the other man’s body.

One of Harry’s fingers, slick with conjured lube, circles gently at Draco’s entrance. He works him open, with one finger and then another. They're slow, scissoring thrusts that have Draco pushing back against Harry's hand, aching for more. It's almost too much—it's been so long since he’s been with another man—and the white-hot pleasure has Draco curling into Harry, babbling into his ear for more.

“Harry,” he begs, voice catching on the second syllable, “fuck me. Please. I need you.”

Harry does, his cock sliding into Draco, making him gasp into the crook of Harry’s neck, so full that he can barely breathe, much less think. Every inch of Harry feels huge, all-consuming. 

Harry starts thrusting into him, long, controlled strokes that send Draco into another plane of existence. He’s so desperate for more, a steady stream of _more-please-faster-yes_ falling from his lips. Harry’s arms wrap around Draco’s torso, large hands holding him in place as he continues to drive into him, “Draco—you feel— _ah_ , darling—so—” 

Draco can't bother to reply; the change in position has Harry's cock pressing insistently at his prostate. He’s completely lost, then, to the heat building in his thighs, to the feeling of Harry absolutely obliterating him with each thrust. Harry takes his cock, now weeping precome and painfully hard, in hand and strokes him to completion. Draco cries out for more, even in the throes of pleasure, forehead leaning on Harry’s, their breath mingling in the space between them.

They switch positions. Draco, boneless and pleasure-drunk, lies flat on the bed as Harry pushes back into him from above. His thrusts are faster now, less controlled. Draco whispers _so good_ and _you look gorgeous_ and _I love—_

Harry comes with a soft, garbled cry. He presses into Draco with one final thrust that has him whimpering, oversensitive. Draco kisses him, their lips languid, and somehow it feels more intimate than the sex they have just had.

Harry pulls out of him, moving to lie beside him on the bed, sheets now crumpled and messy beneath their sweat-slick bodies. Draco turns towards Harry, one hand reaching out to twine his fingers with Harry’s. He’s gorgeous like this, dazed and panting in the aftermath of his orgasm, sunlight from the window glancing off the arch of his brow bone, the tip of his nose, the straight edge of his clavicle. Draco wants to see him like this for the rest of his life.

“Harry,” he says around a stray kiss, his voice is a touch more vulnerable than he’d expected, “I—I can't let you go after this.”

Harry pulls back to face him, a hand coming up to cradle Draco’s chin. “Was I not clear enough earlier?” he says, leaning in closer, nosing at Draco’s cheek.

“Darling,” he whispers, voice steady, “I care about you. I want you. I… I’m not sure if I’m in love with you yet, but I think I can be, if that's enough for you?”

Draco folds himself into Harry's embrace, kissing him, holding him close. It is enough.

* * *

#### EPILOGUE

“Back again? I’m starting to worry about your caffeine intake.”

The café across from the Apparition point on Diagon Alley—now permanently called _Accio Latte_ —is bustling with customers. He nearly stumbled over a cluster of children cradling hot chocolates and barely stopped himself from running into a throng of witches sharing gossip over sips of the café’s latest brew in his journey towards the back counter. He had made it there eventually, though, managing not to have gotten someone else’s coffee all over his Auror robes as he has a handful of times before.

“It's not my caffeine intake we should be worrying about,” he says, glancing pointedly at the steaming mug in his boyfriend's hand.

Harry steps out from behind the counter, “Oh, you don't need to worry about that. This is for a _very_ important customer.”

“And who might that be?”

“Just the Aurors’ new Head of Modernisation.”

“You heard!” cries out Draco, rushing forward to throw his arms around Harry's neck, “Who told you?”

“Ron sent me an owl as soon as he found out,” Harry laughs into Draco’s hair, his arms circling around his waist, “I’m so proud of you.”

And Draco’s proud of himself too. He’s had a smile on his face since Robards promoted him this morning. It has been six months since Mosbey was apprehended, and Robards has finally caved in, partnering Draco up with Weasley for fieldwork and assigning him to head up the department's new modernisation initiative. Draco’s especially excited about the latter and already has plans to install computers in every office and distribute mobile phones to every Auror. For the first time in a long time, Draco feels like he has a purpose.

Harry leads him to their usual booth at the café’s window, a constant amidst all the changes the building has undergone over the past six months as Harry has worked to rebuild it from the ground up. The walls are still a pale blue, and the menu is still an ever-changing entity, but Draco can see bits and pieces of them both in the shop’s second iteration.

Mrs. Weasley’s pastries are displayed proudly in the café's display case, and Harry’s collection of Snitches whizz above the heads of customers, entertaining children and adults alike. Family photos, new and old, line the walls. Draco's influence is evident in the tall bookshelves that cover the walls of one side of the café, teeming with Draco’s favourites and Granger’s recommendations (and Pansy’s _Witch Weekly_ ,of course), and the soft music that one can hear if one listens past the chatter of highly caffeinated customers. Traces of his magic are also imbued in the café's new menus, which allow customers to order by touching their wand to the surface, and the string lights, which change colors based on the occasion. Draco was particularly pleased to see its colors twinkle red-and-green around Christmas and shift to a rainbow during LGBTQ+ History Month.

“How should we celebrate this momentous occasion, Auror Malfoy?” says Harry from across the table, his face split into a wide smile.

Draco barely manages to suppress a smile at that. While he had once agonised over what Harry called him, he's now comfortable with the way 'Malfoy' rolls off the other man's tongue—as an endearment rather than a tool for Harry to keep his distance. He makes a show of wrinkling his nose, “Ugh, don't call me that. That's what Robards calls me when he's cross about something.”

“What endearments am I allowed?”

“Well, let me think,” says Draco, leaning in as though he’s telling Harry a secret, “Malfoy for everyday, my darling for Sundays, and… the Aurors' Head of Modernisation, but only on very special occasions.”

“Oh,” says Harry, his smile soft, one hand reaching out to tangle with Draco's under the table, “and, what should I call you when I’m cross? Draco?”

“No! No. You may only call me Draco when you are completely, perfectly, and incandescently happy.”

“Then how should we celebrate this evening… Draco?” asks Harry, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

When Harry looks at him, he feels like they're the only two wizards in the world. There's a joy, pure and unsullied, in his eyes Draco knows is reflected in his own. “Draco,” starts Harry, with another kiss to his forehead, “Draco,” a kiss to his jaw, “Draco…”

Harry’s lips meet his, and Draco's coffee grows cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of a wizarding café that changes names belongs to [rockmarina](https://rockmarina.tumblr.com/), and the various café names belong to [maesterchill](https://maesterchill.tumblr.com/). Both were general suggestions made within the Drarry Discord in December of 2019.
> 
> The epilogue is based off of the [American ending](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZkQP19Ebzhw) of Joe Wright’s Pride & Prejudice (2005).
> 
> The [art](https://prolix-.tumblr.com/tagged/day-shift-on-diagon-art) embedded in this fic was created by [creeeee](https://creeeee.tumblr.com/) (Chapter 1) and [anokaba](https://ano-ka-ba.tumblr.com/) (Chapter 3)! Please go shower them with love for their gorgeous works!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> Feel free to come find me on [Tumblr](https://prolix-.tumblr.com/)!


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